The Shield of Vale
by Vronsurd
Summary: There was no one left. They had lost the war. Salem had destroyed Vale, Mistral, Atlas, and Vacuo. Years later, Jaune, Ruby, and Weiss are all that remains of the Huntsmen. After losing to Salem in their third and final battle, the team escapes with their lives and decide to bet everything on Weiss's ability to send them back in time. Mystery Jaune pairing. Also, White-rose.
1. The Flake and The Flower Fall

**Hey all, So I'm doing some actual writing on this account now. Mind boggling. My IRL friend got on my case about how much fanfiction I used to write on my old account–and how much he liked it and how it's disgusting that I just read these days.**

 **So, I'm reintroducing a story rotation because of that guy.**

 **I decided to go with RWBY, since it's one of my favorite fandoms. This is supposed to be a bi or tri weekly updated story–because of how large the chapters will be–but until I flesh out a full rotation...(I only have one other RWBY story in the works right now) I may update more regularly.**

 **This is a serious story, with dashes of humor, pinches of feels, plenty of action, and a generous serving of plot. I'm also working on a fun story which I should post soon, possibly even tonight.**

 **And a slower fluffier piece in the future.**

 **I still occasionally get messages about A Yandere's Worst Nightmare which, while flattering, I'm fairly certain I won't be pursuing. I think it stands best as a fun four part-that's because much of what I had planned for that story now seems like it would detract from the flawed but fun piece as a whole.**

 **This story is White Rose-ish and also features a Jaune ship which is–secret. Not that I haven't decided yet or anything–it's a secret. I definitely know what it will be. It's just a secret right now because I know and I don't want you to know but I definitely know.**

 **For sure.**

 **So, without further ado:**

 **The Shield of Vale**

The Flake and the Flower Fall 

_Thirty Seconds Before Departure_

Blood. Black. Dripping.

Teeth. Snarling. Tearing.

Burning. Panting. Killing.

Jaune was in pain.

His body ached. His soul wept. His limbs shuddered.

He screamed as he cut down enemy after enemy, enraged by their persistence–but also his own impotence.

No matter how strong he grew...

No matter how many enemies he slew...

It was all a little too late wasn't it?

###

He hadn't been skilled enough to save Pyrrha. She died by Cinder's hand.

Now? Now, he could dispatch the Cinder from those days without breaking a sweat.

But it was too late.

He hadn't been quick enough to catch Ren. The tea-loving martial-artist was ripped apart in a sea of red eyes and white claws.

Now? Now, he could slaughter those Grimm with calculated indifference.

But it was too late.

He hadn't been strong enough to stop Nora when she decided to follow her best friend off the ramparts. He did not see Valkyrie's fate. The hammer wielding eccentric had knocked him out.

Now? Now, he would have caught Nora's elbow, thrown her back, and saved Ren himself.

But it was too late.

Damn it! Why had he been so weak when it mattered? Why could he not summon the necessary strength when the tides of war had not yet been set?

If he had his current power at the beginning of the war...

Perhaps he could have helped Yang when she stayed behind to buy time for civilians to escape.

Instead he had returned to the attack site a day later to find her beaten, broken, and lifeless. Just one more victim of that monster, Hazel.

Perhaps he would have noticed Blake's intentions before she decided to go after the mysterious enemy queen. Her self-assigned assassination from hell, a suicide mission from every perspective.

He should have known she would internalize Yang's death more than the girl on whom he lavished comfort–Ruby.

Blake was breaking inside–more than the rest of them.

And he missed it.

He freakin' missed it.

Watery, bloodshot eyes and a pasted smile was the last Jaune saw of Blake.

Well...

It wasn't the last he saw of Blake.

It was, however, the last time he saw her alive.

When he, Ruby, and Weiss challenged Salem, five years after Blake's disappearance, the queen of Grimm had smiled and produced a set of distinctly feline ears, severed from their owner, explaining that she found them lying around, asking if the trio recognized them.

Jaune, Ruby, and Weiss were psychologically defeated before the battle even began.

Rage, sadness, and misery do not level-headed fighters make. If not for Weiss's glyph wizardry the group would not have escaped to die another day.

###

 _Twenty Minutes Before Departure_

Jaune roared as he ripped Crocea Mors through the bellies of three Ursas. The monsters vanished in a flash of soot and smoke. His aura deflected a rogue paw swipe towards his face. He still felt the blow a little. Ursas hit hard.

He should have paid a bit more attention to the trajectory of that swing.

Normally, killing a few Ursa without taking any damage was a walk in the park. He would sever limbs and heads in a blur of lightning fast slashes, decimating his mindless foes before they could muster their first attack.

But his last battle with Salem had shredded Jaune's beloved blade, leaving him with a razor sharp, foot-and-a-half-long stump.

The change in weight, range, and overall maneuverability complicated his customary fighting style. A shorter blade meant larger steps, reaching further, and swinging harder. So a claw he would usually have avoided with a quick lean back, now required a full-fledged back-pedal.

Weiss had recommended he swap out his family heirloom for one of the various other weapons strewn about various battlefields of the four kingdoms.

The suggestion irritated him.

Hers wasn't an unreasonable or illogical recommendation. Nor was she unempathetic when she made her opinion known. Jaune knew the heiress had swapped out Myrtenaster with Myrtenaster II, III, and IV since the war began. And retiring each of her weapons had been an emotional occasion, a few choice tears slipping down the cold girl's cheeks.

Jaune should have been willing to do the same. He knew that. It was all for victory. To finally win this hellish war.

But...was winning the war even possible? Did winning the war even matter?

###

Salem had taken the kingdoms. First Vacuo, then Atlas, and then Mistral. In the beginning Vale had looked as if it would fall first, but, thanks to the courage of a few elite hunters, it had stood the longest, a single beacon of hope as Grimm flooded the continent.

But now, even Vale had been consumed.

The Grimm showed no mercy as they ravaged the world. They did not leave a single human or faunus alive. The monsters could sense fear through walls and bunkers and detect despair through gates and fences.

And they did not tire from spilling blood.

Their victims could hide. But they would soon be found. They could run. But they would quickly be caught.

When Vale had been on the brink of extinction, the verge of a massacre that would end the lives of every single citizen, and the few refugees who had managed to seek asylum in the flailing country, the few huntsmen who remained, Jaune, Ruby, and Weiss included, decided to make their final stand against Salem.

It was a battle that would go down in history.

At least it would have, if Jaune, Ruby, and Weiss–still technically students since they had yet to graduate from Beacon–had not been the only survivors of the fight.

They had grown so much. They had gained so much power.

But it wasn't enough against Salem's near cataclysmic might. She hadn't been so strong in their first and second clash. In fact, in a blind rage, Ruby had nearly overpowered her in the second–after she watched Grimm devour her uncle and father.

But with each fallen kingdom Salem grew more powerful, drawing energy from the darkness spreading across the world.

By the time seventeen bedraggled hunters–the very last of their kind–challenged her for a third showdown she was already in complete control of several legendary Grimm and her personal power had increased at least threefold.

Could they have defeated Salem if she was alone?

Perhaps.

They had trained endlessly, night and day, for ten years, with relentless determination–pushing bodies and semblances to the upper boundaries of human possibility and then beyond those bothersome limits.

But it was a mute question.

Salem was not alone. Sure, her human subordinates were gone, many cut down by the last members of JNPR and RWBY themselves. But Salem hardly needed to lift a finger when she rode a mountain-sized Dragon and commanded a Nuckelavee as fast as Ruby in her younger days and capable of speech.

Speech.

As in the Grimm spoke.

The fiend taunted, laughed, and jeered. When Weiss finally managed to seal its movements Jaune took great pleasure in watching Ruby cut the monster in two.

But then still, there was a herd of goliaths, a nevermore almost as big as a Dragon, a Dragon bigger than it had any right to be, and a swarm of Beowulf's that were under the control of the largest alpha Jaune had ever seen.

Glynda Goodwitch died taking down the Dragon and the nevermore in one of the most incredible displays of power Jaune had ever seen. The copious amounts of fire dust the group had brought along aided her spell casting of course, but her wrath was no less spectacular. Cardin Winchester was slain by the alpha Beowolf, almost willingly, perhaps anxious to join his wife and unborn child in whatever afterlife death provided.

The rest of their company died fighting the Nuckelavee or the goliaths.

Eventually every single one of the ancient Grimm were put down. But by then Jaune, Weiss, and Ruby were alone.

They were the last shards of Beacon.

They were the last hope for humanity.

It was not an unexpected outcome. It was the same as the last two times they challenged the dark goddess. Rose, Arc, and Schnee. Team RAS.

They fought her like a well-oiled machine. Semblances complemented one another perfectly. Teamwork and execution was flawless. They fought unceasing and relentless.

They near brought her to a standstill.

But then, a few hundred miles behind them, Vale fell. The last free kingdom slipped into darkness. And Salem's strength doubled once again. With a single chop of an open hand she broke Jaune's sword, just as she had to Myrtenastar so many years ago, after showing the team Blake's stolen appendages.

It was Weiss who got them out. She used the last of her strength to cast a teleportation glyph that transported the three of them a mile or two away. And then Ruby used the last of her energy to carry them another four or five miles at break neck speed, up into the mountains.

When both women had collapsed from exhaustion Jaune picked them up, slinging one over each shoulder. It was cold. The snow was deep and walking was exhausting and cumbersome. But he could scarcely remember the days when the weight of his two companions would have troubled him.

He walked for hours.

Where was he going?

He wasn't sure at first.

How could he be? He barely knew where he was.

But before long he recognized the direction his feet were pointed. He allowed the tugging in his soul to take over his limbs.

He had to move quickly. Whenever a kingdom was about to fall all the Grimm on the continent surged towards its main cities. Which meant, for a little while, his destination would be blissfully free of Grimm.

Jaune stuffed down the flutter of confusing emotions blossoming in his stomach. Now wasn't the time to feel anything unnecessary.

Although he allowed himself the smallest of smiles.

After nearly eleven years...

Jaune Arc was going home.

###

 _Three Hours Before Departure_

Jaune swore as more Grimm surged into the bottle neck. The walls surrounding him, made out of debris from Jaune's home village, creaked ominously. Would they topple? Raining down several thousand pounds of cement, metal, and wood on the barrier's occupants?

He hoped not.

But there was no way to really know was there?

Besides.

He couldn't afford to waste a shred of his mental concentration. Not when he could be fighting Grimm for the rest of the day. He couldn't afford to run on autopilot when he had to carefully conserve energy.

"Weiss! Are you done yet?" barked Arc.

"Stop bothering me or come over here and do it yourself," replied Weiss from somewhere behind him. A shrill venom laced her voice.

Jaune kept his attention on the next three Grimm approaching. Damn. Maybe he should have made the bottle neck narrower, so only one Grimm could approach at a time. Three at a time had seemed like an easy feat for a huntsman such as himself when he was constructing the walls. But he had failed to consider the true toll of fighting three easy Grimm every fifteen seconds for four hours straight.

"Patience is a virtue Jaune," chirped Ruby with that dark self-aware cheer she had developed, as if she were a satire of her past self.

"So is helping your friends fight against endless streams of Grimm," he responded.

"I'm busy Jaune," Ruby whined. "Weiss needs my help."

Jaune scoffed, hacking the right arm off the nearest Beowolf. "You don't know a damn thing about glyph construction Rose."

"Sure. But I'm her muse. Right Weissy? I inspire you, don't I? When I'm at your side your brain works faster doesn't it?"

"Of course, love, whatever you say." Weiss replied automatically.

"Whipped," muttered Jaune as he killed the remaining two Grimm.

"What was that you mumbling moron?"

"Nothing snow-angel."

The Schnee heiress had long ago abandoned anger over Jaune's choice nickname for her. Once upon a time she would have told him to stop being over-familiar. But considering the hell they had endured together for nearly a decade–there weren't many acts of over-familiarity left.

"Do you really need to tag out?" asked Ruby. No trace of jest remained in her voice.

The young reaper had become jaded, a cynic, detached from most everything around her.

So had Jaune.

So had Weiss.

They had each developed their own twisted sense of comedy, a willingness to find humor in even the bleakest of circumstances. They couldn't take many things seriously. They couldn't afford to. Not now. Not when hope was in too little supply.

Still there was one thing they never took lightly.

Each other's lives.

They'd lost too much. They were greedy now, unwilling to lose even one more precious thing.

"I'm fine," answered Jaune. "If I need to catch my breath I'll just body block the Grimm and let my aura take some hits."

Weiss made a disapproving noise. "You should refrain from allowing your obnoxious aura reserves to perpetuate bad habits."

Jaune snorted as he slammed Crocea Mor's pommel into a Beowolf's face, shattering the Grimm's bone mask. A second blow caved in the creature's head. "You're right princess. I'd hate to set a bad example for all the little future huntresses and huntsmen looking up to me."

"You know Jaune, if Weiss can pull this thing off, you might actually have some little future huntresses and huntsmen looking up to you soon," said Ruby, chuckling.

"Oum, I hope not," replied Jaune, as he split the head of a Boarbatusk before it could charge. He caught the downward strike of a lumbering Ursa on his fractured shield, a shower of sparks sprung forth as claws scraped metal. He severed the Ursa's limb with his counter. "I don't think I can put up with brats anymore."

"You had better get over that inhibition," said Weiss. "You know the plan."

"Yeah. Yeah. I know the plan," replied Jaune with a dismissive shrug.

"Repeat the plan," said Weiss.

Jaune groaned, watching the next three Grimm approached. He was tempted to turn and let Weiss watch him roll his eyes.

They had all changed since the world ended. But Weiss had changed the least.

As a student the Schnee heiress had been likely to explode when casually dismissed. She had mostly outgrown that trait. But Jaune was sure he could still rile her up a bit.

However, in the end, he decided not to to antagonize the woman. He kept his attention trained on the approaching Grimm–not because he was concerned for his safety or because he did not wish to annoy the Schnee–but because Weiss's back was probably turned towards him and her eyes were probably closed, focus narrowed on the complex glyph she was constructing.

He quickly recited what he believed to be the gist of their plan, "Amber, Qrow, Roman, kids, Ozpin, Cinder, Ruby" he planted his foot on the belly of an Ursa and pulled his broken weapon from its chest, "Ironwood, Adam, White Fang, Whitley, Schnees, moon, Salem, Grimm" said Jaune.

"I do not appreciate your abbreviated rendition of the plan Jaune. Also, you went out of order near the end."

"Not all of us have a... what does she call it Ruby?"

"Pathetic memory," chirped the brunette.

"Eidetic memory," corrected Weiss on reflex. Jaune did not need to turn to know that Weiss had cracked a single eye, fixing Ruby with a baleful glare. "Dolt."

Ruby laughed as if she had been called her favorite name. It was a rare kind of laugh to hear from one of their group. A genuine laugh of pleasure. Not just a breathy acknowledgment of some dark irony.

It was always a special moment for the group, hearing one another laugh. A real laugh.

Jaune enjoyed Ruby's laugh the most. Although he probably didn't enjoy the sound as much as Beacon's resident ice-queen. Weiss had always had a weak-spot for the cute and the adorable.

And the Ruby.

After, no doubt, taking a moment to compose herself, Weiss continued on her warpath. "All the more reason for you to recite the plan, in order, minus the brevity."

"Shouldn't you just focus on that glyph Weiss?"

"I am focusing on the glyph. Now recite the plan or so help me I'll speed up the time of the Grimm you're fighting relative to yours by a factor of three."

Jaune raised an eyebrow at that. She wasn't really threatening him. But he could tell she was serious by her all-business tone.

Ruby cackled.

"I expect a full rendition from you too Rose."

Ruby squealed. "Oh no! Not Disciplinarian Weiss! This isn't the bedroom, I can't afford to faint out here."

"Jaune, you are on deck. You are going first now dolt."

"Aw...c'mon Weissy, you're the only one who has to remember all of this stuff. Me and Jaune will just follow your lead."

"Recite. The. Plan."

Weiss's tone left little room for argument.

Jaune smiled as Ruby dutifully obeyed, explaining the finer details of the trio's complex and lengthy scheme.

###

"I'm sorry Jaune," said Ruby in a quiet voice.

Hers was the first noise to break the smothering silence–other than the repetitive crunch and snap of the debris underfoot.

Jaune exhaled roughly as continued to survey the remains of his birthplace. Several buildings still stood, dilapidated and damaged. But many more structures had collapsed entirely, broken into sharp bits and pieces by the feet of ten-thousand Grimm. There was evidence that some homes had been set alight, charred wood and sooty soil staining those areas. Had it been an accidental fire, caused by the former owner's haste in escape?

Or...

Jaune looked towards the sky. Had they fought a Dragon?

Or worse, several Dragons?

"Don't be sorry Ruby. I haven't lost anything more than anyone else."

"I know. But...it's just... after what happened to my family...I don't think I want to see what happened to Patch. I think it would hurt you know? So... Are you alright?"

Was he alright...?

He shouldn't be.

But was he? He just felt so...empty inside. Sadness, horror, surprise, what was the point of feeling those things?

He could feel some negative emotions tugging on his heart. There was some pain.

But Jaune's heart was hardened now, it was difficult to pin down what he was feeling or how strongly. He was so used to only allowing himself to feel rage–and even then, only when he was attempting the impossible.

As Jaune struggled to take stock of his thoughts and feelings so that he could give ruby a proper answer, he examined the town where he grew up. The roads he had ran along as a child. The stores and hangout spots he had wasted countless hours at.

It was all a rubble heap now.

No different from the other ruined cities, towns, and villages Jaune had traversed over the last few years.

Except it was different.

This was his home.

"It hurts," Jaune admitted, "at least a little. But its not as if I expected anything more than this. I had to come here though. I have to find...", he faded off before attempting to restart, "I need to get...", he tapered off again.

"Closure," it was Weiss who filled in the blank for him. "We came here for the same reason I dragged us back to Atlas are we not?"

When Jaune didn't reply she continued, "I knew the military had fought to the last man. And I knew there was no chance in hell my sister would abandon her fellow soldiers. I knew she was dead. I was certain of it. But I still had to know what happened to her. I had to see her fate with my own eyes."

Jaune did not verbally respond. But he was sure his face revealed just how deeply he was considering her words.

Weiss was right. Of course, she was right.

She was a freakin' genius after all.

The cool intellectual had been correct often when she was still a student.

But once she had grown up, gotten passed her ingrained prejudices, acquired friends, and learned more about people and the world around her...

Well, now, she was pretty much right one-hundred percent of the time.

He had seen the village. It looked as he expected it to. That was enough for him on that front. His friends, neighbors, first crushes–they had all died the way he had assumed they had.

The way he had imagined for years.

But there was still one place that warranted additional investigation, that cried out for his attention like a child separated from his mother in a busy store.

The Arc family home was located on the southern outskirts of the village. It was larger than most of the other homes in the village but, as Weiss mentioned upon their approach, a tad on the small side for a family of ten. Jaune corrected the blunt woman's word choice, informing her that the Arc home was cozy–cozy for ten.

Weiss was not impressed by his censoring.

Aside from that short conversation the group was quiet as Jaune inspected his childhood home.

The front door was missing. As were all of the windows on the first floor. There was a hole in the roof above, probably caused by some kind of flying Grimm.

As he approached the front porch he glanced down at the flower bed his mother had taken so much pride in. Nothing but weeds and crab grass remained.

Unbeckoned, a memory surged to the forefront of his mind, Willow Arc, on her hands and knees, working a small rake through fresh soil. She was planting... something.

It was times like these that Jaune wished he was born with the equal parts curse, equal parts blessing of Weiss's flawless memory.

The memory of his mother's hunched back was vivid. But everything else?

Not so much.

The floral print on her dress was comprised of those purple lillies she loved so much. He could make out those little flowers clearly. But when she stood and turned...

Her face was blurred.

He could make out her blue eyes–but that was only because he remembered he had gotten his eyes from her. Her lips, nose, brow, jaw, he could not remember any of those features. He squinted, as if closer observation would improve his recollection.

"Jaune?"

Jaune was broken from his reverie when Ruby placed a hand on his shoulder. Jaune realized he'd been staring at weeds and grass silently for more than a minute.

"Sorry, just...trying to remember something." With a shake of his head to clear his thoughts, he slowly approached his home's entrance.

The wooden porch creaked beneath him with every step. A a few splintered holes and missing planks added even more dubiousness to the structural integrity of the landing.

Jaune was assaulted by more vague memories as he passed the threshold of his home. Girls screaming, laughing, and fighting. His father's booming laugh. His mother's massive meals.

Weiss and Ruby remained quiet behind him. Leaving him to his thoughts.

Once plush carpet had been torn apart by claws, scratch marks stretched flooring panels beneath it all. More claw marks ran along the walls. There were tears in the ceiling, no doubt caused by larger Grimm with jagged spines protruding from their backs. Jaune traced two fingers along the fissure in the ceiling. When he withdrew his hand, drywall dust coated his fingertips.

The trail of wanton destruction led to an obvious destination.

The last door on the left, at the end of the hall, just before the living room.

The basement.

"Got a light?" he asked.

"Here." Weiss tossed a small item over his shoulder.

Jaune spotted the object out of his peripheral vision. He snatched it out of the air. It was a silver pen light.

"Thanks."

Jaune walked down the hall, ignoring the various memories attempting to stampede his calm. When the Grimm came, there was only one place his father would have chosen to fight from.

Jaune could envision it.

Mathias Arc would have watched the army of Grimm on the horizon, calculating his family's best chance for survival.

A hunter of pure pragmatism, Mathias would have made a quick decision.

Perhaps the swarm was coming from both sides. Perhaps they were moving too quickly.

If Mathias determined there was no chance of escape he would have sought out a defensible position. The basement of the Arc home would have had a natural appeal.

A year or so before Jaune ran away from home, he had helped his father convert their basement into a bunker of sorts. The floors, walls, and ceiling were all composed of solid concrete. There was one way in and one way out–perfect for bottle-necking a mob of Grimm.

Mathias, alone, could probably hold such a position for several hours. And if Crystal, Alana, or Sage were home–one of the other three hunters in the family–they could potentially hold the position for much longer. Three hunters, swapping to eat and sleep, could probably hold the stairs for several days, waiting for relief from Vale.

Relief that would never come.

Jaune took a deep breath as he pushed the button on Weiss's light, eliminating the shadows in the hall.

The basement door was split in two. The bottom half was absent entirely. The top half of barely hung on its rusted hinges, open wide, inviting exploration.

Jaune proceeded slowly, studying the long scratches along the stone walls. With each step, the stairs creaked beneath him, groaning after so many years of disuse.

His father would not have fought on the stairs. No smart huntsman would have. The footing was too insecure. Mathias would have waited for the Grimm to come to him, at the bottom of the stairs, sword drawn and eyes burning.

Jaune wasn't sure what he was hoping to find at the bottom of these stairs. That his family hadn't been home for the g-pocalypshe? It would only mean that they were dead somewhere else in Remnant. Perhaps he just wanted to see if his family fought well. To see how much time his old-man's–and his huntress sisters'–struggle against the Grimm bought the rest of his family.

Was he only here out of idle curiosity?

Jaune's foot reached the last step; he rounded the corner into the basement.

Jaune first noticed that he did not need Weiss's light. The basement was flooded with natural luminance

Strange. The level had been constructed like a bunker. Jaune certainly didn't remember installing windows.

Jaune stepped over fractured pieces of concrete, large and small, as he approached the source of light on the far side of the area.

A gaping hole, with a broad tunnel leading through dry dirt.

Well...

That was something his father probably hadn't considered.

The Grimm had burrowed through.

Jaune wondered how long his family had lasted once they were caught in a pincer. He forced his gaze away from the gap in the wall.

He looked to his immediate right.

His stomach performed some maneuvers it hadn't in years. Bile raced up his throat, a sign of what was to come.

After a few heaves, it came. He retched as what little food he had eaten that morning resurfaced, splattering at his feet.

There were footsteps behind him. Ruby and Weiss no doubt.

"Jaune are you...?" Ruby trailed off when she saw them.

Jaune's family.

All nine.

Nothing but dried bones.

Limbs were cracked and shattered. Spines from bodies. All injuries that the three of them had witnessed performed on living people by Grimm.

The Arc family had died horribly.

Jaune retched twice more, finishing off the contents of his stomach and then straightened, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. His eyes were watering. He didn't cry much from sadness these days so it was probably a side effect of throwing up.

Definitely a side effect.

"I...", his voice was hardly above a whisper, wavering a bit. "I guess they were all here."

"Jaune..."

Jaune turned to Ruby. Her arms were outstretched. Her wide eyes, sympathetic.

Jaune accepted her hug; although he was not sure he wanted it. They had all lost family. He did not deserve Ruby's pity. She had lost so much. As had Weiss. They had dealt with their grief and kept moving–he needed to do the same.

What was worse was that he had known, deep down, that his family was dead. He had known it with certainty. He had come to terms with it. He had learned to live with it. Yet for some reason this confirmation hit him like a goliath trunk. Did that mean that in the depths of his subconscious being, a small, faint, doddering speck of hope had existed? That he had unconsciously believed there was some chance they might be alive?

Jaune forced himself to look at their bodies again. Underneath the bones lay several weapons. A sword and shield, not unlike Crocea Mors, only generic, and the shield was a mecha-shifting weapon.

Then there was a pair of matching long and short swords, Artur and Merl, a gun that doubled as massive spear, Momma Pain–although Jaune was never certain if Sage was serious about calling it that–and a chain sickle contraption loaded with an absurd amount of firepower, Lead Whisper.

They'd gone down fighting.

As a hunter should.

As he would.

Weiss's voice snapped him from his thoughts.

"Where are the shovels?"

Jaune was taken aback by her question. Then he glanced at his family again.

Right. Graves.

"Tools are in the shed out back," he answered. He walked up to the hole in the wall. "Suppose there's a shortcut now."

Weiss and Ruby followed him up the steep dirt ramp.

There were a few shovels in his father's old tool shed but Jaune only withdrew one. Weiss and Ruby tried to convince him to let them help. But, to be frank, he didn't need or want their assistance.

Sure, they would make the job go faster.

But he didn't want the job to go faster.

He was going to dig nine graves. No mass burial for his family. He would dig nine graves. And, as best he could, make sure the right bones made it into the right grave.

And they weren't going to be shallow graves.

No.

He would dig his family full deep graves.

It would take hours for sure.

Maybe if he was lucky, it would even bite into the night.

Normally he coveted sleep where he could take it.

But not tonight.

Because the only way he would fall asleep tonight was if he worked himself to the point of total mental and physical exhaustion.

Even then, he doubted he'd get much shuteye.

###

 _Eight-And-A-Half Minutes Before Departure_

Jaune was breathing heavily. He'd been fighting Grimm for nearly three hours now. The first two hours and forty minutes hadn't been difficult. When he'd been taking on a controlled flow of Grimm.

But now the beasts were climbing over the top of their makeshift barrier.

There was no rhythm to their entrance.

There was no cap to their numbers.

Jaune's eyes flicked across his battlefield. In an instant, he took a mental snapshot of the scene. It was a skill he had learned from fighting more than a dozen foes more than a thousand times. It allowed him to instantly register what he was up against, its current position, and the direction he was heading.

He'd have to do it every half second to stay on top of the fight. Which was annoying. But it was the best way to manage the battlefield. He could protect himself on adrenaline and awareness of his immediate vicinity. But to protect Weiss he'd need to stay aware of everything, at all times.

It was a skill befitting a leader.

There were two Ursa clambering over the wall on his left. Only their heads were visible so he had a few seconds before he'd have to deal with them. An alpha Beowolf was blitzing through the middle passage way, two betas hot on his tail. Another Ursa had tumbled over the wall to his right. He'd deal with it after the alpha. It hadn't made a move yet but it was only a matter of time. A few beta Beowolves were already on the ground, but they didn't pick up speed as quickly as an Ursa or an alpha so he figured he'd deal with them last.

Above him, Ruby was on aerial support duty. For most snipers, that would entail a strong defensive position from which to leisurely pick off targets.

Ruby, however, ran out of bullets long before.

So, instead, she flitted from Grimm to Grimm in a flash of cape and petals, Crescent Rose carving through charcoal flesh like butter.

Jaune returned his shield to its sheath form and kicked up a second sword from beside him. Holding the broken Crocea Mors in one hand and the unnamed sword from his basement in the other felt strange.

He rarely dual wielded offensive weapons. He was accustomed to rapidly switching from defense to offense. A two-bladed approach lent itself to a constant barrage of offense.

Against a stronger opponent he would never have strayed so far from his expertise.

But against numbers like these, killing with two hands was probably better than killing with one.

The alpha fell easily enough. Jaune pierced its shoulder with his unnamed blade, slowing its movement.

The Beowolf's unusual girth gave it more momentum than Jaune expected. Rather than stop the monster completely once his sword was buried up to the hilt, his feet still slid backwards as the Beowolf continued to charge. Before he was pushed back too far, he used Crocea Mors to sever its neck. He shouted as he swung, the feeling of his sword passing through flesh immensely satisfying.

As one Grimm faded another six approached.

Jaune's limbs were heavy. His shirt clung to his skin. And he could feel his heartbeat throbbing in his legs.

Jaune hadn't pushed himself like this in a while. Sure, he had gone all out against Salem. But that had been full throttle from the very beginning.

A sprint.

This battle was more of a marathon–a marathon that was gradually growing faster and faster.

How much longer could he maintain this killing pace?

He hewed off a Beowolf limb.

Spinning, he plunged his other sword into the chest of another Grimm.

He withdrew that blade and spun, catching the snapping jaws of a third Grimm in a scissoring cross-guard. He pulled back his swords, freeing the Grimm from the top half of its head. A guttural growl erupted from his stomach and traveled up his throat as he butchered one more enemy of humanity.

But he couldn't stop there.

The two Beowolves that were following the alpha split off from one another as they approached. Were they trying to run around him? To get to Weiss?

No chance in hell.

He hurled his undamaged sword to his right. It ripped through the Beowolf's neck. The death disintegration began immediately.

Jaune reversed his grip on Crocea Mors when he looked to his left. The damaged sword would fly like the other. The weight was all wrong. But if he put the right spin on it...

Jaune grinned as the ancestral blade scythed the Beowolf's legs out from under it.

Oum. There was something almost...medicinal about mindlessly killing mindless monsters.

Now. Which weapon should he go pick up first?

Probably Crocea Mors.

Definitely Crocea Mors.

A roar from directly in front pulled his attention. A charging Ursa. A big one too. And here he was, no sword.

He remembered the days when he would have panicked to see a charging Grimm while unarmed.

Hell.

He remembered the days when he would have panicked just to see a charging Grimm.

Now though...

Jaune deployed his shield and got low. The Ursa probably expected to bowl him over, pin him down, rip open his stomach.

Typical Ursa stuff.

The Ursa's roar transformed into a confused grunt as Jaune's legs exploded upwards, his shield ramming into the monster's chin driving it up onto its hindlegs. Another shove put the Grimm on its back.

Jaune did not hesitate to finish his opponent. He leapt atop the struggling creature, straddling it. He unlatched his shield, gripping his armament by its sides. He drove the sharp edge of his shield into the Ursa's throat, one, two, three times. He roared on the third strike. There was something bestial, something…predatorial, about killing a Grimm when it was pinned. Just as Grimm did to humans.

It was invigorating.

The head rolled.

Jaune Arc could do this forever.

Jaune stood, searching for his next victim. He was surprised to only see one Grimm left–its body already fading due to the ridiculously large scythe stabbed through it and seven or eight inches clear into the ground. Ruby stood atop her weapon, no sign that she was struggling to balance.

"Where'd the Grimm go?" panted Jaune. He glanced up. The sky was empty of threats as well.

"They're letting the bosses through," answered Ruby.

"The...bosses...?" repeated the swordsman.

An ear-splitting scream threatened to near rupture Jaune's eardrums. A half second later there was another scream in response. And then another. And another. And another.

Jaune swore.

Nuckelavee. At least five by the sound of them.

Another scream.

Make that six–or was that a repeat?

Either way, things were about to get...tricky.

"Weiss! How's that glyph coming along?"

Weiss didn't respond.

Jaune glanced behind him, concerned that one of the Grimm might have gotten around his defenses, mauling his team's distracted dust manipulator.

No such misfortune.

Weiss was standing stock still, back turned to him, Myrtenaster pointed straight into the air. A white glyph with traces of gold stood before her, big as a house.

She probably had not even heard him. Jaune repeated his question–louder this time.

If Weiss's shrill tone was any indication, she had heard him the first time. "I would be finished by now if you would just fight the damn Grimm quieter. Honestly, come–"

Ruby interrupted her. "C'mon Weiss, you heard the Nuckelavee. Could you throw us a bone here?"

Weiss's next words originated from behind clenched teeth. "I am working on it Ruby. Buy me as much time as you can. The gate could open any moment. I am close."

Jaune watched a large Nuckelavee approach down the middle of their choke. Its hooves kicked up small clouds of dust with every step. Its hungry lifeless eyes flitted between the two closest targets–as if indecisive about which it wished to kill first.

Jaune took stock of his aura. He didn't have a scroll to check anymore but he had a general idea where his gauge was pointed. He was full of the stuff.

Good.

He'd need it.

###

Ruby threw herself onto the bed. The huntress hacked and waved when she was assaulted by a thick plume of dust. "Ack! Weiss, I'm dying," Ruby choked.

"What did you expect?" asked Weiss. "Clean the bed."

In a flash of rose petals Ruby disappeared, as did the comforter, sheets, and pillow from the bed. She reappeared behind Weiss, lightly pressing her lips to the Schnee's cheek. "Whatever you say princess."

Ruby vanished from the heiress's side before Weiss could reply.

"I am not a princess... dolt," Weiss muttered.

"I know I am, but what are you?"

Ruby was back already.

"That was fast," said Weiss.

"Well I can shake out a blanket at the speed of sound so..." Ruby drifted off.

"Even several times the speed of sound if you so choose, correct?"

"Well sure," Ruby flitted over to the bed, beginning to stretch the fitted sheets across the mattress, "but I think that would be overkill."

Weiss helped Ruby stretch the sheets. "Your middle name is it not?"

"Overkill hasn't been my middle name for months now Weiss,"

"Oh?"

"Yep."

Weiss waited for Ruby to continue. When the woman kept working with a hum and a glimmer in her sterling eyes Weiss realized she was waiting for her to ask. She gave in with a sigh. "What is your middle name n–", began Weiss.

"Scythe-Lord," Ruby interrupted.

Weiss stared at Ruby blankly. "Scythe-Lord," she repeated back, not bothering to hide her disgust.

Ruby continued unperturbed. "Would you like to hear your new middle name too?"

"Ruby, don't you da–"

"Rapier-Mistress."

Weiss could feel her eye twitching uncontrollably. It hadn't done that in a while. "I swear to Oum Ruby, if you ever call me that–"

"You'll spank me with your rapier?"

"I will enforce a thirty foot perimeter restraining policy."

Ruby plopped onto the bed once the comforter was spread out. She began kicking off her boots. "Ooh! Abandonment play? Nice!"

Weiss sat down on the other side of the bed, methodically unlacing her shoes. "I blame Blake for whatever is wrong with you."

"You blame Blake huh?"

"Yes."

Weiss lurched when two calloused hands grabbed her shoulders, pulling her down to her back. Suddenly she found herself staring into Ruby's wide, gorgeous, and playful eyes.

The Scythe-Lord's face was only a few inches away. Her breath gently caressed Weiss's hair, her features just as expressive upside down as they were right-side up.

"You don't take any responsibility for corrupting me?"

Weiss couldn't help but notice that Ruby was staring at her mouth. "None."

Her heartbeat was louder and faster as Ruby drew incrementally closer. "Not even a little?"

"Why should I?" Weiss whispered, her attention now focused on Ruby's pink lips.

"You know why," said Ruby, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. She moved even closer. Weiss could no longer see her lips. That was fine. Weiss didn't need to see her lips. She waited to feel them pressed against hers. The sensation was not forthcoming.

She felt only warm air against her–and that was it. The heiress knew if she lifted her head even a half-inch her mouth would meet Ruby's. The warm, needy, ravenous part of her wanted to do just that, capture and consume her languid rose in all her beauty.

But the Schnee in her demanded the last word. "I have no idea to what you are referring." Weiss lurched upward incapable of further resistance.

Her lips met nothing but air. Ruby had retreated to her side of the bed, curling up. "Well sorry for bothering you then. I must have mixed you up with some other Schnee who took my first...everything."

Weiss did not respond for a moment because she was afraid her voice would reveal that she was panting.

Panting.

Ruby Rose had left her panting.

The Schnee refused to admit defeat–even if she had been clearly beaten, so she quietly caught her breath. Even if–if!–some small part of her wanted to whimper Ruby's name in a needy whine.

"Jaune. He didn't look good just now. Did he?"

Weiss's train of thought performed a sudden track switch. The Huntsman's eyes had looked empty and dead as he bade them goodnight, telling them to use any bedroom.

Ruby had suggested they all sleep in a single room, for safety, side by side, like they did when in the wilderness. Jaune had shot down the idea, saying the two of them deserved some time alone, and insisting that all the Grimm were in Vale right now.

The room Jaune chose to sleep in was his childhood bedroom. There was a gaping hole in its ceiling, exposing the alcove to rain, dirt, leaves, and debris.

Weiss had begun to say that, perhaps, he should sleep in one of the other rooms. But Jaune had curled up on his bed, back to the huntresses, unmoving and unspeaking.

After Weiss shared a quick glance with Ruby, both huntresses had moved on, to find their own lodging.

"He just buried his entire family. He's allowed some grief," said Weiss.

"Do you think he'll get over it?" asked Ruby.

Weiss did not waste time thinking about her answer. She sat up, back rigid. "Of course he will. Jaune is strong." Quieter, she tacked on, "we all are."

"But don't you think," began Ruby, "he's a lot lonelier than we are?"

"Because we have each other?" questioned Weiss.

"Right," replied Ruby. "I mean, don't misunderstand me, we're all friends. And I love Jaune like a brother. And I would die for him. And I know he would do the same for me. I mean we all would, right? Die for each other?" Ruby rolled off the bed and onto her feet, pacing as she got into one of her fast-paced rants.

Weiss turned so she could watch her.

"But we've been together from the beginning." Ruby motioned from herself to Weiss. "And we've been together together for years. Jaune though...he hasn't had anyone like that. I thought he was getting close to girls a couple of times but..."

"They died," filled in Weiss, "they all died."

"It's like he's cursed," said Ruby sadly.

"Well, to be fair," said Weiss, rolling her eyes, "everyone died. Not just Jaune's love interests."

"I know. I know. But I was just remembering when dad and Uncle Qrow died. I spent the whole night crying in your arms."

Weiss nodded. She remembered Ruby's water stained faced, and her own shoulder, wet with tears.

"Now Jaune's going through the same thing. But he's alone...there has to be some way we can make him feel less alone!"

Weiss bit back the smallest of smiles. Ruby was older now, taller than Weiss and physically more mature in every way–save one.

Her face. She still had those adorable puppy-dog eyes and her brow still creased in the cutest way when she was deep in thought. Her lips had a tendency to pout when she was consternated–fuller now, but still more cute than sensual in Weiss's opinion.

Sure Weiss had seen Ruby's warrior faces now too. Her eyes hardened into merciless pools... Her teeth bared as if she had fangs... Hair pulled out of her face–to make it near impossible for her enemies to escape the power in her gaze...

Oum. Was she just as attracted to Killer Ruby as she was to Cute Ruby? Maybe even more so?

That would need some self-analysis later.

For now though...there was still one Ruby that trumped all the others. The Ruby that Weiss saw far too rarely.

"Are you suggesting a ménage à trois?"

"A what?" replied Ruby distractedly, continuing to pace.

"A threesome."

Weiss watched Ruby's reaction as the words registered. At first her eyes widened and her jaw unhinged. Then red surged up her neck, through her cheeks, around her ears and straight into her hair line. "A-a threesome!?" The woman sputtered.

Ah. Embarrassed Ruby. The most adorable of all the Rubys. It had been too long. See, these days simple teasing could not bring out that deep blush. She had grown too...mature. No. Ruby had to think that Weiss was serious. That was when she got nervous. For all her jokes about spanking and abandonment play, if Weiss actual were to brandish her rapier in the bedroom, she had little doubt Ruby would turn into a stuttering mess.

Weiss fought back a grin, keeping her face a mask with hardened Schnee discipline, as she continued, "a threesome, Ruby, is when three people–"

"I know what a threesome is Weiss," Ruby cried.

"Ah. Right, of course. It was your suggestion after all."

If Ruby could have turned redder she would have. In fact, she might have. "I wasn't suggesting a threesome!"

"Oh?"

"No!"

Weiss turned away from the reactive huntress, struggling to hide her amusement. After a few seconds Ruby spoke again, and the smile died on Weiss's lips.

"Do you think that would actually help him though?"

Weiss gawked at her lover.

The crimson faced huntress would not meet her eyes. Her gaze–which could literally melt elder Grimm, was magnetized to the floor.

"Well..." Weiss faded off. She had not expected to put actual thought into her proposition. "First, let me say, I was joking. The other day he patted my head. When I told him if he reminded me that I was short again–whether by word or deed–I would kill him. He apologized and said I reminded him of his sisters for a moment..." Weiss went silent as she continued to think.

"So...?" prompted Ruby.

"So...", continued Weiss "He may not even be capable of seeing us that way..."

"Really?" said Ruby, relief evident in her tone.

"But he is a man. And we are not his actual sisters. So I cannot pretend to know."

"Oh," said Ruby. Her voice sounded down, almost... upset.

Weiss tried to quickly formulate a list of potential reasons for Ruby's mood shift. Was it their inability to help Jaune? Was it Weiss's joke about the threesome? Was it...

"Would you...do it?" Ruby asked quietly.

"Do what...?" repeated back Weiss. But even as the heiress asked she already knew what Ruby was asking. The pieces had fallen into place.

"Sleep with Jaune."

Weiss winced. Her best friend sounded so uncomfortable and quiet. As if she was unused to dealing with whatever was happening inside of her. Weiss understood why.

Ruby was a lesbian.

Weiss was not.

She was just as attracted to the stomach under Ruby's shirt as she was to the stomach under Jaune's.

Well she was a little more attracted to Ruby's because it was, well, Ruby's.

Still.

A "threesome" with Jaune would likely be a very...one-sided and jealous affair.

Weiss felt a little queasy knowing she had suggested it–even if it was just a poorly considered joke. Weiss had heard that dealing with jealousy was sometimes difficult for the partners of bi-sexuals if they only swung one way.

Weiss had never seen much jealousy from Ruby, just affection and trust. And now the girl was trying to figure out how to cheer up her beloved friend–and measuring her own willingness to open herself up to crushing jealousy and heartache for his sake.

It was almost enough to make Weiss fall in love with the woman all over again–even if she did feel a little pimped.

"Ruby, I would do anything to help Jaune. Anything, except, trade your happiness for his. And because I firmly believe sleeping with him would do just that, I will have to say no. There isn't a chance in Remnant that I will ever sleep with Jaune."

"Oh? That's um..."

Weiss could tell by the way Ruby faded off that she didn't know whether to smile at Weiss or continue to worry about Jaune. The fencer decided to make it a little easier on her sweet hero. She stood and wrapped her arms around her.

"What Jaune needs is hope Ruby. And I think a plan will give that to him. Not sexy times with two women he probably sees as family."

Ruby brightened immediately. She wrapped her arms around Weiss's waist and leaned back, an easy smile gracing her features. "A plan to defeat Salem?" she asked, "do you have one?"

"I...well, I have an idea. It is, admittedly, a little farfetched. But, given Salem's current strength, it seems we are very much in need of a plan that goes beyond the...usual constraints of imagination."

"I'm all ears babe," said Ruby, shifting her weight suddenly to give the heiress's nose a little kiss.

"As you know my glyphs allow me to control...certain constants in our environments. Things like acceleration, kinetic energy, pressure, location..."

"Sure, sure," said Ruby, as she buried her face in the side of Weiss's neck.

Dear Oum, was she easily distracted.

Weiss stifled a moan when Ruby caught the sensitive skin on the side of her neck between her lips.

"Well, before she died, Glynda was helping me work on a new spell...mmm..."

"Some kind of crazy new attack?" whispered Ruby before gently biting Weiss's earlobe. From there she kissed down the heiress's jaw with feathered pressure.

"Of a kind," replied Weiss, eyes closed. "a method for undoing events via controlled temporal regression."

Ruby's ministrations halted. She leaned back. Weiss opened her eyes, reveling in the smoldering excitement burning in Ruby's eyes. The heiress had caused it. Her and her alone. On so many levels.

"Controlled temporal regression? Is that...?"

"Time travel?" said Weiss. "Yes it is."

Ruby tackled her onto the bed as she squealed. "Are you serious? Time travel?" Ruby grabbed Weiss's wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand. With her unoccupied thumb she stroked Weiss's scar lovingly.

"When am I not serious?"

"Well, you were just talking about a threesome."

Weiss huffed and looked away. "Of course I was not serious about that. In fact, I am a little peeved that you thought I was."

"Don't be peeved," Ruby placed a gentle hand on the side of Weiss's cheek, forcing her to look up at her. The brunette leaned down, pecking Weiss's lips lightly, "I just...panicked a little when I thought of sharing the most beautiful," a kiss, "amazing," another kiss, "incredible", and another, "woman in the world who's about to invent time travel."

Weiss's cheeks were burning by the time Ruby finished.

"I can't wait to tell Jaune." The reaper sat up happily.

In one fluid motion Weiss gripped Ruby's thighs and tossed her off. She rolled with the throw, so that by the time Ruby landed, Weiss was already on top of her. Her voice was sweet as she leaned in. "Well you will have to wait." She traced the outline of Ruby's jaw with a slender finger. "You are not going anywhere until I release you."

###

 _Twelve Hours Before Departure_

This was it. The big day.

Jaune stared into his bathroom mirror.

His features were unfamiliar, foreign even. Sure, he still had the Arc eyes–blue as could be–and his nose and mouth hadn't changed much either.

But he was still a different man.

For one, his jaw was more prominent. There was no more baby fat and the tendons in his neck were more distinguished which lent credence to his jaw line. Additionally, there was a fine coating of stubble over his cheeks, which certainly wasn't there when he was still a Beacon fledgling.

There were a few more wrinkles in his brow too.

Oh yes. And there was the scar.

A band of red stretching from his left eye over his nose and down the right side of his face.

As a child, he had thought a facial scar like Weiss's would look cool. A testament to the fact that he'd been in a lot of awesome sword fights. A perfect lead into a "but-you-should-see-the-other-guy" kind of story.

Go figures he'd wind up with a burn scar wide as a bus. Cool scars were sharp white lines. They added character.

Like Weiss's.

Jaune snorted. What was he? A Schnee fangirl?

He stopped thinking about Weiss's scar and refocused on his own.

Damn it. His made him look like an Oumdamn flag.

He smirked at that thought. There was a time when Jaune would have been horrified by his disfigurement. But now, when it came to the lasting effect of injuries, all he really cared about was if they would inhibit his ability to fight.

Jaune touched the charred blemish. It was rougher than his unmolested skin and it itched occasionally. But, otherwise, it wasn't a hindrance.

For that, he was grateful.

Because he would have to fight today.

Probably quite a bit.

They had been preparing for nearly three weeks.

He and Ruby had built a ring of debris in the middle of town with one long funneled entrance. From a nevermore's point of view Jaune supposed the construct would look like a giant keyhole. The walls were about twelve feet high, which most Grimm could still get over–but only gradually. Overall, it was a pretty decent place for a final stand.

Weiss had been busy in her own right, scratching out equations on pen and paper, drawing glyphs...and muttering about the problem of "locating a fixed point of time based on a single non-temporal variable."

Jaune and Ruby had made the mistake of asking what she meant. They had received... well... an earful.

 _"Time is composed of an infinite number of infinitesimally small events," began the brilliant heiress, "unlike mass or force or energy, which have units of measurement based on precise natural reactions, time has always been measured generally, with human perception. Our most precise units of time–the ones that aren't based purely on perception–are cyclical in nature. A day is one rotation of the planet. A year is one orbit around the sun. An hour is one-twenty-fourth a rotation. If I want to release one thousand calories of energy in a blast I simply create my glyph with specific instructions to release the energy necessary to boil one gram of water a thousand times. When I modify relative time, I am simply inserting a multiplier on top of the infinite number of events that make up a moment. But to pick out a singular instant from among those moments and send someone back to it...? That is an incredibly complex dilemma. If I were to create a glyph with the same structure as that energy release but regarding the rotation of Remnant around the sun...I would not affect time I would be trying to reverse the orbit of the planet. Which is impossible. That is the problem Glynda and I managed to solve with some manipulation on the typical structure of a casting equation."_

 _Jaune and Ruby shared a confused glance, already far beyond lost. The heiress continued, oblivious to their confusion, and probably talking more to herself than them at this point._

 _"The problem I am still faced with is finding a proper marker. I could use the position of the sun in the sky as a marker. But that would only allow me to select what time of day the portal opens at. There would be no way to guarantee what day the portal would lead to...you could step through to yesterday or a thousand years ago. Similarly, with the position of Remnant in orbit I could select a specific date in the calendar–but the portal could still lead to any year in history. Once again–you would travel to a random point of time. I need a proper marker. Distance traveled at a measurable speed will still work best–but the speed must be constant and linear. Rotation leads to repeat variables, and I cannot possibly measure with enough precision to note slight variations between circuits. If I had a lab I could use something like the distance a light particle travels, or the decay of an unstable isotope...but, without equipment, and without knowing that data off the top of my head, I will need something bigger, something that can be measured with math and the human eye..."_

 _Ruby and Jaune had backed out of Weiss's makeshift office–Mathias Arc's old study–when Weiss had gone back to scratching notes and muttering to herself._

 _"Weiss is a little scary when she gets like this," said Jaune._

 _"Really?" hummed Ruby, "I think she's cute."_

 _Jaune snorted. "You would."_

Weiss's breakthrough came a few days later. It struck like a hurricane, while the three of them were laying in the unkempt grass behind Jaune's home, staring at a broken moon.

 _"Those pieces are eventually going to crash down here," whispered Weiss. She sat up suddenly, shouting, "the moon is eventually going to crash into remnant!"_

 _"That won't happen for thousands of years," said Jaune rubbing his ear._

 _"It doesn't matter when they hit!" said Weiss, "Don't you see!? Measurable linear movement that has been ongoing for hundreds of years! It's the perfect marker! Scientists estimated that the Great Collision would occur two-thousand-two-hundred-thirty-six years in the future from our first year at Beacon! They've already done the precise measurements, which means I can measure time with the angle of decent as the pieces break off from the body of the moon!"_

 _The heiress bolted to her feet. "How could I have missed it!?" She practically vanished she fled to her office so quickly._

 _"Ruby."_

 _"Yes?"_

 _"Your girlfriend keeps acting like even time travel should come naturally to her."_

 _"What can I say? She's a Schnee."_

 _"You know I could make myself scarce if you want to...relax her."_

 _Ruby glanced at him. Jaune wasn't sure what he saw reflected in those silver eyes of hers–other than the moon that was. "Hey Jaune, you know, if this all works out, you'll be back in a world with available women. You gonna relax yourself?"_

 _Jaune laughed at that, staring up at the moon. He hadn't thought much about that. "No. There's too much work to do when we go back. It'll be fine for you and Weiss, since we'll be traveling together for the mission and you all actually love each other. No one would judge you for that. But I can't afford to waste time, not even a single night. How could I sleep around when I could be spending that time saving Pyrrha, Ren, Nora, Blake, Yang, and everyone else?"_

 _Ruby didn't reply for a few seconds. Finally, she said. "You could still do it once or twice."_

 _"Not interested."_

 _More silence stretched out between them. It continued for nearly twenty minutes. The two friends enjoying each other's company._

 _Ruby, of course, was the one who broke the streak._

 _"Jaune?"_

 _"Yes?"_

 _"Are you a virgin!?"_

Jaune exited the bathroom. He picked up the sword he had rested on the wall. The weight was like Crocea Mors'. Made sense. His father would have sought out a weapon like the one he had grown up fighting with.

He proceeded downstairs. Weiss was sitting at the dining room table, sipping the last of the coffee they had managed to scavenge. He did not envy it of her. Ruby hated coffee. He didn't mind it.

Weiss needed the caffeinated beverage like oxygen.

"Where's Ruby?"

"Asleep," Weiss answered.

"Ah," said Jaune, sitting across from her.

"I have something for you," said Weiss, producing a leather-bound notebook from her lap. "I know you like to fight light, but I'd appreciate it if you could hold it for me."

Jaune accepted the notebook and flipped through it. Pages of notes, equations, glyph drawings. None of it stuff he could ever hope to understand.

When he sent her a questioning look she explained, "I'll need it when we get to the past and my hands will be occupied."

Jaune bounced lightly on his toes as he thought about what Weiss's hands would be occupied doing. "So...today...?"

Weiss gave a small nod, nearly imperceptible from behind her mug. She held the cup with two hands, raising the dish to her lips with something akin to reverence. Jaune noticed her grip on the cup tightening as she sipped, slender fingers tensing slightly.

"I can do it. I know I can," Weiss whispered.

"Is that what has you so tense? Well, more tense than usual?" asked Jaune. "Are you worried about whether you can actual open this time portal?"

Weiss eyed him warily. "Among other things."

"All these years and you still don't like talking about your feelings," said Jaune, cracking a grin.

"No, I do not," said Weiss, returning a small smirk.

Jaune leaned back, resting on the rear legs of his chair, hands behind his head. He began whistling.

"What has you in such good cheer this morning?" asked Weiss. "You are usually quite somber before battle."

"Well." Jaune's chair slammed into the ground. "I don't know. There's something nice about the finality of this one. When you start writing that glyph you're gonna attract the Grimm in droves. They're probably just about finished killing everyone in Vale, so there could be hundreds, maybe even thousands of them. We'll hold them off for as long as we can. If you get that glyph up and running then we'll be back home. We'll be in a world where everyone's alive and we can keep them that way."

"And if I cannot open the portal?"

Jaune shrugged. "We'll die as we lived, the most badass Hunter team in history."

"Dying does not bother you?" asked Weiss.

Jaune had to ponder his answer to that. Did the thought of dying bother him?

He supposed it should.

No, it definitely should.

But at the same time...

He was tired.

He was so tired.

But what was he tired of?

Life?

Survival?

Fighting?

"Not anymore. I mean, sure, my survival instincts are still intact. But I'm just so done with losing. I'm ready to die trying to win. Winning and surviving would be fine too. But no more of this 'living to fight another day' bullshit. Every time we've done that Salem's just gotten more powerful. More unstoppable. Everyone around me has put their life on the line to stop her. And they died when they couldn't. I say it's my turn."

"So you are willing to die to stop Salem," summed Weiss.

"Of course, aren't you?"

Weiss set down her mug, fixing Jaune with a calculating gaze. She steeped her fingers, resting her chin on her fingertips. "No. There are only two things in this world I am willing to die f–"

The heiress was cut off by a happy red blur. "Who's ready to kick ass today team WRJ!?" Ruby pronounced WRJ "retch", drawing said noise from the heiress.

"Ruby! I told you not to call us that!"

"Sorry Weissy, it's the only order that makes sense. Plus, you make a great leader!"

Weiss rolled her eyes. "Ozpin picked both of you to be team leaders not me."

"Ozpin wasn't perfect," countered Jaune, "if he was, we wouldn't be the last three people on remnant."

As light-hearted as Jaune had been when he said it, the laughter still died on his lips at the somber reminder of their circumstances.

Weiss reached for her coffee.

Ruby snatched it from her grasp and drank the last swallow. "Ack! That's disgusting Weiss! Did you put any sugar or cream in here?"

"Don't drink it if you don't like it!" roared Weiss.

Ruby seemed unconcerned when Weiss whipped out Myrtenaster IV. Weiss squinted at her lover, as if determining whether she would poke her with the pointy end. Finally, she decided against stabbing the cheerful reaper. Instead, she stepped back from the table and pointed her blade at the empty mug. A white glyph danced at her rapier's tip. After a second or two of concentration Weiss set down her weapon and picked up her steaming cup.

"Is that the same coffee that was just in your stomach!?" asked Ruby.

"Your stomach too," replied Weiss smugly.

"Ew! That's so gross Weiss!"

"It's not as if I simply moved the coffee from our stomachs back into my mug. I also changed the temporal state of the coffee back to seven minutes ago when I first made it. From the perspective of the coffee, it's never been drank."

Jaune tuned out his friends. Ruby was saying something about coffee not having a "perspective." Weiss was rolling her eyes...

The usual.

But Oum, if their younger selves could see how they had grown. How they could use their semblances now...

Well he imagined he would never believe it.

Ruby would probably faint.

And Weiss...well Weiss would probably claim her physics warping abilities were well within expectation.

Heh.

That would be something to see.

Who knew.

If Weiss could pull this off...

Maybe he would.

###

 _Thirty Seconds Before Departure_

Blood. Black. Dripping.

Teeth. Snarling. Tearing.

Burning. Panting. Killing.

Jaune was in pain.

His body ached. His soul wept. His limbs shuddered.

He screamed as he cut down enemy after enemy, enraged by their persistence–but also his own impotence.

No matter how strong he grew...

No matter how many enemies he slew...

It was all a little too late wasn't it?

No.

No it wasn't.

Not this time.

This time there was a chance, a chance for him to save everyone. To save his family. To save his friends. There was nothing that could get in the way of that. No one who could stop him. The Grimm were coming in hordes now. He cut them down with something like indifference.

Crocea Mor's shield had warped as he continued to abuse it as a weapon. When it was clear it would no longer function he threw it aside, instead fighting with his broken sword and a dagger.

The Nuckelavee were, as always, a problem.

Two of the centaur-like creatures wrapped up each of his arms with their extendable tendrils. They were probably intending to hold him still while the approaching Boarbatusk gored him.

Rather than attempt to free himself he latched onto his bindings. With a tremendous yank he launched the Grimm towards him.

They went airborne.

Damn. Sometimes his own strength impressed him.

The Nuckelavee had only flew a few feet before Ruby beheaded them both. Jaune didn't quite see it happen. She was moving too quickly to track with his eyes. But his finely tuned senses could still detect her. The movement of the air, the sound of her semblance activating.

The Grimm parts on his arms disappeared in time for him to bring his dagger down into the Boarbatusk's eye. He screamed and laughed as the Grimm vanished.

Oum, why did everything hurt so much?

Why did everything feel so good?

"I have it!" screamed Weiss from behind him. "Get ready!"

What?

Jaune was drawn out of his bloody haze.

Had she truly done it?

"I am opening it now!" Weiss screamed.

Jaune chanced a quick peek over his shoulder.

Weiss was thrusting Myrtenaster into the ground, standing before the most dense and most intricate glyph Jaune had ever seen the woman cast. Thousands of interlocking and rotating parts danced. The luminescent circle was alive, throbbing with movement.

Jaune backpedaled furiously, hacking limbs off of the various Grimm that reached for him. Above the clamor of the snarling beasts he he heard the steady beating of two giant wings.

"Dragon!" Ruby cried, slowing down to back up next to him.

Jaune's grin grew manic. "Don't worry about the Dragon! If we get through the portal we can make sure this never happens!"

"It's open," cried Weiss.

"You go first," shouted Ruby, spinning her Crescent Rose before her in a deadly figure eight. "We'll cover you."

"I am not leaving until both of you are through!" Weiss shouted in response.

Jaune was vaguely aware of Ruby turning to face Weiss...

And then his world exploded.

###

 _Departure_

Ruby turned, glancing at the love of her life. Weiss's back was turned, and her head was down. She didn't want Ruby to see her face, to hear her tears. Unfortunately for Weiss Ruby was just coming down after heavy semblance use. Her brain was working on overdrive. Her perception of time was warped and her reasoning faculties, which allowed her to judge her own momentum when moving at inhuman speeds, were currently on their most extreme settings.

Weiss's voice had cracked.

Ruby had heard it.

It could have been fear. There were a lot of Grimm around.

It could have been relief. The woman had just managed to crack time travel.

But Ruby knew enough about her girlfriend's mannerisms to recognize her slip for what it was.

Sadness.

Weiss wasn't coming.

But why...?

She couldn't.

It was the only explanation. Weiss couldn't keep the portal open and go through it at the same time.

Well then.

Ruby activated her semblance. The world slowed around her.

In a flurry of mind bending speed she grabbed Jaune and threw him into the portal, an ethereal window into another time, a time when Remnant was whole.

How she would love to see her sister, father, and uncle again. Who knew? Maybe she would now that Jaune was through.

Shouldn't the world change immediately now that he was in the past?

An important question.

But not as important as the woman she had stayed behind for.

She reappeared behind Weiss, to protect her back, cutting down a swath of nevermore feathers that had threatened to rip the Schnee apart.

"Ruby!?" Weiss gasped, looking over her shoulder. "What are you doing!? Go! I can't hold it much longer!"

"There's no way I'm going without you Weissy."

"Just go you dolt! Can't you see I am doing this for you!?"

Ruby sliced through three charging Beowolf's in one swipe and then stabbed straight down into an Ursa's head. "Sorry to spoil your plans Weiss but if we go down, we go down together. That's how it's always been."

Weiss wailed.

Ruby wasn't ready for the noise. She hadn't heard Weiss sob like that since Winter. "Cheer up Weiss," she activated her semblance, speeding around the heiress, killing anything that drew near. "Jaune's going to stop Roman, Cinder, Salem, and the Grimm. Maybe we'll just close our eyes, open them, and bam, it'll be like the war never happened."

Ruby slid to a halt dizzily.

Weiss's sob only increased in volume. "It doesn't work that way Ruby! I didn't have the power to make it work like that!"

"You mean...?"

"Exactly! So go! Go through the portal while I can still hold it!"

"Not a chance! I'm going to use my eyes Weiss so protect your–"

"Oh." Ruby's mouth formed a small circle as she felt the broiling heat.

 _Never take your eyes off the Dragon._

Such a simple rule.

How had she forgotten it now? Of all times?

The beast had flown directly above them, tucked its wings, and dove, rocketing down towards them far quieter than when it was in flight.

Now it's flames were a quarter-second away from embracing the two huntresses, its body was perhaps a full second away from crushing their remains. Her eyes would not stop the fire. With Ruby's semblance she could, perhaps, save herself and Weiss. Maybe. The Dragon was large. She'd have to go from zero to two-thousand miles per hour to avoid it at this point. And while she could possibly pull that off...

Maybe it was better to just...embrace the same fate her girlfriend had chosen...

Ruby activated her semblance.

But only to turn around and look at Weiss.

The heiress wasn't moving, her wide eyes locked on Ruby.

Ruby Rose smiled.

Weiss's eyes softened.

The snowflake and the flower were overwhelmed by fire.

###

Jaune was on his hands and knees. He was on the verge of throwing up, but he pushed back that feeling.

Where was he?

Was he in the past?

Where was Ruby?

Where was Weiss?

Did–

Jaune looked up.

He was just in time to watch the approaching sole of a boot connect with his face. His head snapped back. His body toppled over.

Jaune Arc fought for consciousness. He struggled to stay awake.

But he could not.

Whoever had hit him was good at knocking people out through their aura. Jaune's brain had been perfectly rattled.

Jaune's world had already gone black but before noise too faded he heard the words, "don't bother him, he has a job to do."

There was no way to know whether they were directed at him. Or whether he had imagined the voice.

He had a feeling though.

A feeling those words were important.

 **So there you have it, the first chapter of The Shield of Vale. Let me know what you think. I didn't have time to do much self-editing and I don't have any beta readers for the RWBY archive so I apologize for the little things. And this is a long chapter 12k and some change, so I'm sure there's a lot. Ugh. I hate not having time to do proper editing. Dialogue suffers and clarity does too. I'm sure I would have cut out a lot if I'd actually been able to go through it all.**

 **Gonna need a beta eventually.**

 **Still, hope you enjoyed.**

 **Let me know if I should write more B-)**


	2. Perhaps a Prisoner Probably Not

**Hola!**

 **People asked me why Ruby and Weiss appear ahead of Jaune in the character list.**

 **Drum-roll please.**

 **Because the site says couples will automatically be pushed ahead of single characters-no matter how you order them. Just another way the universe likes screw with people for being alone.**

 **So, a very astute reviewer—who unfortunately left his/her great review as a guest—noted a couple of things about this story that I would like to address.**

 **Number one, in my first chapter I accidentally referred to the "Grimm" as "grim"—whoops. I changed that. (Guess that's the sort of mistakes betas are supposed to stop).**

 **Number two. Ozpin, the maidens, and Jaune, Weiss, and Ruby being the last three people on earth. Our guest reviewer pointed out that, if Jaune, Weiss, and Ruby really are the last people left on Remnant, Jaune, in theory, should have Ozpin in his head. Additionally, Weiss could be the winter Maiden, etcetera…**

 **The answer to the Ozpin quandary is relatively simple. But it won't be explained until later in the fic.**

 **Now, as to why Weiss and/or Ruby would not automatically receive the maiden powers…**

 **This presents an opportunity to briefly detail the perspective of this narrative.**

 **Jaune, Weiss, and Ruby, are not, necessarily the last three people on Remnant. Every claim and statement in this story is from the perspective of the characters, not an omniscient narrator. That means, the veracity of the claim "last three people on remnant" is completely subject to Jaune's knowledge base. There are likely far more than three living people in Remnant. Whether they are hidden in a bunker or have found an island to flee to, there are, more likely than not, a few other survivors.**

 **Assuming, based on the strange and convoluted rules by which the maiden powers transfer, that the successors to the remaining 3 non-cinder maidens were not carefully selected but transferred practically by accident during the heat of battle…**

 **It should be little surprise that the maiden powers did not wind up with Weiss or Ruby.**

 **Finally, over the general sentiment that Weiss and Ruby's perspective were more pleasant to read from then Jaune's and that they should be in the past too. I wrote Ruby and Weiss the way I did to make the end of the first chapter, emotionally impactful.**

 **Jaune's perspective and personality will bleed through more as this story progresses, making him a much more likable character. I went all-in with Weiss and Ruby so I could make an emotional payoff for a fifteen-twenty minute read.**

 **And to the IM's asking me about the ship.**

 **It's a secret.**

 **But I do know exactly who it will be.**

 **Same as last time, no beta, no time to edit thoroughly, hopefully it's not too rough.**

 **Without further ado**

Possibly a Prisoner; Probably Not

Jaune awoke to a bucket of cold water.

Well. That wasn't quite right.

He was already awake. Just not fully.

The frigid assault, however, finished the job.

He heard the sloshing before he was drenched. He was careful not to give any indication that the attempt to rouse him was successful. He kept his eyes shut and his chin resting on his chest.

Eyes closed, cold water dripping down his face.

It took him back. Way back. He remembered a prank by his most mischievous sister. It had happened long before he had become a huntsman. And long before Salem had destroyed the world.

Jaune inhaled through his nose as he pretended to wake.

He took stock of as much of his environment as he could before he opened his eyes.

He smelled…perfume? Soap? Feminine, for sure.

He was seated in a hard chair. His legs were bound to the chair's legs. His arms were bound to the chair's arms. Additional rope was looped around his chest and his stomach to firmly attach him to the seat's back.

Whoever had tied him had been thorough—and they certainly knew their way around a knot. There was no wiggle room in any of his bindings.

Which meant he couldn't just break his thumb and yank his hand back. An annoyance.

But not a game-breaker.

The chair he was secured to was sturdy—but it wasn't iron. He could feel the chair's legs give a bit when he flexed. The arms too. It would take a bit of effort, but he could reduce the furniture into kindling.

Then he would kill his captors.

Quickly. Efficiently.

He would not give them the opportunity to understand or comprehend what was happening before they were slain. They would wonder to themselves why they had yet to pierce his aura reserves. They would wonder why he seemed impervious to pain.

And then they would die.

Next, he would…

He would…

Wait…

Recent memories surged into his unprepared mind.

The dragon. The portal. Ruby and Weiss.

Had that happened? Was it real? Had he dreamed it all?

Was he…in the past?

Suddenly, opening his eyes became a touch more important.

His eyelids fluttered open. He took a few seconds to adjust to the light. There was a mirror directly before him? No. Not a mirror. But his eyes. The Arc family eyes. He had seen them in the mirror often enough.

He looked past the eyes.

Her face was framed by short blonde hair. There was a small scar across her right cheek and a mole on above her right lip. Just above that mole was a nose ring, a small red stone mounted on the band.

Jaune had seen that nose ring _and_ that mole _and_ those eyes before. He looked away from the girl, observing the familiar concrete basement. Memories of countless hours transforming it into a bunker with his father assaulted him.

"Good morning," growled his older sister in a terrifying tone.

Alana.

She was alive. Of course she was alive. Everyone was.

Weiss had done it. She had sent him back before the war. Before his family had been slaughtered. Before his friends had been murdered.

Jaune Arc was home—for real this time.

Jaune turned his attention back to his sister. A metal bucket rested in her hands. Her weapon was strapped across her back. Alana's ice-blue eyes were alight, pulsing with a heat and life Jaune figured was completely absent from his own.

A second girl walked up beside Alana.

Crystal examined him with a harsh glare. "Finally awake huh?"

Jaune cleared his throat. "Where am I? Who are you?" He figured those were the most reasonable questions to ask in this position—although he already knew the answer to both.

"We're asking the questions here," said Alana.

"Okay," replied Jaune simply. "But you'll eventually tell me why you've tied me up right? You girls do know this is kidnapping…?"

Alana kept her eyes trained on him as she called out, "Sage?"

Jaune watched his third sister appear from behind the stairs. It was surreal. He had resigned himself to never seeing his family again. Now his three older sisters stood before him. Well…they _were_ older than him. All he saw before him now were children. He struggled to hold back a smile. He was happy, sure, but it was best to keep his emotions in check. He needed to figure out what had happened since his arrival. Was it one of his sisters who had knocked him out? If so, why?

And was that even possible? It had been so long since he had seen them. And his last memories of them were when he hadn't even had his aura unlocked. They had seemed monstrously strong then. But now? Were they strong enough to knock him out, even with a surprise attack?

Sage held a small piece of paper—about the size and shape of a five-by-eight photo. In her other hand, rested Jaune's broken sword. She glanced from the weapon to the photo and back again, her eyes flitting behind her spectacles, as she approached.

Sage spoke. "It's Crocea Mors. I'm certain."

Ah. Right. His father's sword.

The pieces fell into place. He still wasn't certain whether that boot could belong to one of his sisters. But it certainly made more sense if it did.

"Where did you get it?" asked Alana from between clenched teeth.

"The sword?" questioned Jaune.

"No, your Oum-awful haircut," quipped Crystal.

"You don't like my haircut?" said Jaune, "I thought it was pretty good," he flicked his neck, gently shifting his mop, "considering my barber uses a giant scythe and cuts hair at three hundred miles per hour…"

"Crystal!" Alana glared at her sister.

Crystal raised open palms in a show of apology. "Sorry, sorry. Serious time. Sorry. You do the talking Lani."

Crystal, ceding the talking role? Jaune suppressed a smirk. Things must be tense.

Alana turned her attention back to Jaune. "Where did you get that sword?"

"It's a family heirloom," replied Jaune.

"You're goddamn right it is," growled at his eldest sister. "But it's not yours. Where did you find it? Who…" she trailed off, her voice losing some strength. She resumed a moment later. "Who did you take it from?"

"It's _my_ family heirloom," restated Jaune. "My great-grandfather fought with it in the war."

"You expect me to believe that? You expect me to believe that a suspicious man, carrying a broken sword—identical to my father's—just… fell unconscious right inside the borders of our town, on the day my father is supposed to return?"

Jaune nodded. That was, essentially, what had happened.

"So, you just slipped and hit your head, huh?" challenged Alane. "No fight with a fully trained huntsman? Maybe you blew a kiss to the wrong village girl and got a rock to the face for your trouble? That what happened?"

Jaune suppressed a chuckle. Crystal was the one who turned everything into a joke but Alana dipped into the sarcasm well when she was suitably upset. He knew exactly which village girl Alana had in mind too—which did not help in his endeavor to avoid laughing.

Shuki the Psycho.

She was the only girl in Fern who would beam a rock at someone for flirting—aside from, _perhaps_ , Ellie Arc. Ellie—wasn't so much a psycho as she was a hard-ass—so Jaune wasn't certain she'd bludgeon someone for blowing a kiss.

But it was certainly possible.

Anyway.

Time to process. Quickly.

What was the best way to handle this?

Wait it out? Argue? Free himself?

Option number one looked attractive. After all, his father would be home eventually, and, with him, so would Crocea Mors. Effortless innocence—Jaune liked the sound of that.

But on the other end of the scale…Ruby and Weiss…they were counting on him. Could he afford to waste time here? Surely a few hours would not irrevocably damage his time-tables? It was a question that would be easier to answer if he knew the date. Weiss had warned that their arrival wouldn't exactly be precise. The sooner he figured out _when_ he had arrived the sooner he could adjust the plan.

Then there was the problem of how long he would have to wait for this situation to just "pan out."

Mathias Arc normally returned home the day he had announced he would. But there were exceptions to that rule. Sometimes his jobs ran days or even weeks longer than advertised.

Weeks.

Regardless of the date, Jaune knew he didn't have _that_ much time to waste. Some parts of the plan were more time sensitive than others. Dealing with the Fall maiden, Amber, was one such part.

Especially since he didn't know exactly when or where she was attacked by Cinder and company. Finding her would be a tricky and time-consuming ordeal.

Plus, there were still so many other questions he needed to answer.

Well, they weren't all questions he _needed_ to answer.

He _needed_ to find out the date.

He _wanted_ to figure out what happened before Ruby tossed him through the portal. Was he alone? And, if so, why? Were his teammates alright? Questions like these were burning bright at the forefront of his mind.

But they were also less important.

He had all of Remnant to worry about. Ruby and Weiss would be fine—if he succeeded. If he failed…well… everyone would—no. It was a moot thought. He wouldn't fail.

"Hello?"

Alana's manicured hand waved just a few inches from his nose yanked him back into reality.

Right.

How had he decided to handle his current circumstances?

"Could you repeat the question?" said Jaune.

"She asked if you got knocked out by an untrained teenage girl with a rock," chimed Crystal.

Alana rolled her eyes at Crystal's uncalled-for interruption but seemed resigned to humoring her. Their dynamic had always been like that. Crystal's mouth would run. After some time, Alana would snap at her. Crystal would calm. And then a few minutes later Crystal's obnoxiousness would reset, as would Alana's patience.

"Right," replied Jaune, "I was attacked. Definitely a trained huntsman. I didn't see them. But it wasn't a teenage girl, trained or untrained."

"You shouldn't underestimate teenage girls." Crystal held up a toned arm, flexing.

Jaune couldn't stop the muffled laugh that escaped his closed lips.

She had some muscle—a lot actually—given her age, body type, and gender.

Nothing he should really laugh at.

But he had tanked blows from Goliath trunks before. So, he figured he'd earned the right to laugh at power posturing.

Crystal feigned offence at his reaction. There might have been some traces of real offence mixed in. Hard to tell. It had been a while since he had to read a woman. Ruby, Weiss, and he had practiced absolute, brutal honesty. There was no need to search for hidden meanings or read into passive aggressive behavior. Anger, apologies, and misunderstandings were identified, explored, and handled with militant efficiency. Part of that was their training as soldiers. Part of that was just being friends with Weiss Schnee.

"You're embarrassing yourself," said Alana, rebuke laced with exasperation.

"You're an embarrassment," replied Crystal.

"You're both embarrassments," cut in Sage, before an argument could begin. She stepped around Alana and crouched before Jaune. She held up the picture of Crocea Mors, hanging above the mantle of their fireplace.

Ah. Jaune remembered this photo.

She then held up the sword.

"Can you understand our concern?"

Jaune glanced from the broken weapon to the photo. His eyes eventually rested on his sister. Figures, Sage would be better at this. She was careful, analytical, smart. She was probably the reason he was so thoroughly tied to the chair. Keeping his limbs firmly attached to the limbs of the chair prevented him from generating momentum. Momentum was the key to escape—well for most people at least. She was a lot like Ren. Not as quiet, but a similar kind of person and warrior—thoughtful, analytical, willing to wait, willing to test the waters.

Basically, the opposite of Crystal. Or—better example—Nora.

Of course, Sage was still just a hunter in training. She was more accustomed to slaying mindless Grimm than dealing with potentially hostile humans. That was why she felt so comfortable getting so close to him. An experienced huntress would have kept some distance. Or at least stayed on guard.

Jaune tested the strength of his chair with a gentle lean.

If he were to try. Really try. And he was willing to sacrifice a few ribs to the ropes around his stomach, he could probably break the back of this chair. He'd then go with the momentum, bringing his forehead crashing down into her nose with the force of a mace.

She'd be unconscious before she hit the ground.

He wouldn't do that—obviously.

But he could have.

She'd eventually learn better. She just had to live long enough. Jaune would ensure she did.

Truth be told, he would have assumed the same position as her. He would have drawn close, letting his captive think they had an easy way out. Let them think he had accidentally put himself in attacking distance.

The only difference between him and Sage was his mile-and-a-half of aura.

And the fact that he'd interrupt his opponents headbutt with a knee to the face.

"The blades do look similar. At least the hilts do. Mine's a little worse for the wear though," said Jaune.

"Obviously," agreed Sage. "But surely you can see why that would only concern us further. Seeing a man with our father's sword, but broken. The natural conclusion is that you not only injured or killed him, but that you destroyed his blade."

Jaune watched Sage's eyes. Hers were a more greenish blue than the rest of the Arcs and they were the only clue to her emotions. Unlike Alana and Crystal, there was no anger in her voice. No baring of teeth. No protruding neck muscles or clenched jaw…

But her eyes were wider than usual. She blinked a little more frequently. There was a hint of wetness.

She was scared. She was terrified that something had happened to their father.

That _he_ had done something to him.

Jaune decided to appeal to her logical brain, to help alleviate her fear. "That wasn't the wear I was talking about _dummy_. Look a little closer."

Sage squinted at him, probably taken aback by both his claim and the name he called her. Wielding the playful insult was a long-awaited piece of justice for Jaune. After all, Sage was the one who called everyone _dummy_. For Jaune, and Jaune alone, the term had grown beyond the occasional insult—transforming into a full-blown nickname. Jaune had rarely stood up to her as a kid. Admittedly, if he had, he'd have received a headlock and an intense noogie for his trouble.

Sage stepped aside, inspecting his blade once more. Crystal swooped in to replace her. "Hey, have we met before? You look…familiar."

"I doubt we've ever seen each other before," said Jaune, "even in passing. This is my first time having the pleasure of staying in…", he trailed off, as if he didn't know the name of his own hometown.

"Fern," Crystal finished.

Jaune ignored her. "Backwards hick-village number twenty-six."

"We aren't backwards or hicks," said Alana. Her voice was a bit of a growl.

"Right. Well, I guess I must have _imagined_ the fight I had with a whole swarm of Grimm. I must have _dreamed_ that I saved the dirty little town of Urn from sure destruction. I must have _hallucinated_ dragging my broken body into Urn. And I guess the Urn-ian teenagers who attacked and trussed me up must be _figments_ of my, obviously, hyperactive imagination."

The ease with which the lie flowed out of him was a little concerning. But words were a weapon—the only kind he was willing to use in this situation.

Jaune closed his eyes. "Maybe, if I keep telling myself this isn't real, you'll all disappear when I open my eyes on the count of three. One. Two. Thr—"

Jaune had hardly reached three before he felt his chair tipping. He opened his eyes to see a furious Alana, hands on his chest, pushing him backwards. A real huntsman, tested by war and blood, would have punched him, kicked him, cut him. Of course, Alana would just tip him over.

What an adorably nonviolent display of aggression.

He toppled with a chuckle.

Alana's face turned redder. She looked as if she might even work up the gumption to kick his downed chair. Or stomp the ground next to his head. Jaune sincerely hoped she didn't. He wasn't sure he would be able to contain his laughter. His head cracked against the concrete floor. That wasn't fun. But it didn't hurt much either. "Ow," he exaggerated, "are you trying to kill me?"

He strained his neck to make eye contact with his older sister. It was difficult. If the ropes were a little lower and he could curl his upper back it would have been easier.

"Sage!" Alana extended an open hand towards her Sage, the girl just outside of Jaune's inverted view. "Hand me his sword."

"Um, wait. I think I'm starting to see what he was—"

Alana whirled on her sister, momentarily disappearing from Jaune's view. She returned an instant later, clutching Crocea Mors.

Jaune wondered if it was possible for him feel any less concerned about whatever the hell was about to happen.

Crystal slipped between Alana and Jaune with hands raised. "H-hold on Alana. Why don't you just calm down?"

Alana sidestepped the girl and snapped, "I'm not going to stab him you idiot." She crouched down next to Jaune, unwittingly giving him a view up the "combat skirt" she adored so much.

He'd have to give both of his sisters some interrogation advice. If he wasn't their brother, one of them would be unconscious, face down in a pool of blood with a broken nose and the other would be receiving a thorough ogling.

Alana held the flat of his blade a few inches from his eyes. "See this?"

"I see it," said Jaune.

"Is this really your sword?"

Jaune took a moment to admire the familiar weapon. The dents, chips, smudges, and fractured edge—every part of that sword had been with him through the best and worst moments of his life. He had originally borrowed it. No. Stolen. But it was his birthright. His legacy. His companion. He turned his attention back to Alana's blistering gaze. "Yes. She's mine."

Alana stared at him for a drawn-out moment. Finally, she spoke, "I don't believe you." She straightened and turned.

Jaune called out after her, "is that it?"

She didn't reply. He lost track of her once she left his frame of vision. "You all realize you can't just keep me here against my will, right? I understand that you're suspicious. But you're not the police, you can't arrest me. Hell, I'm the one who should be calling the police."

"We don't have any police," said Alana, "welcome to backwards hick-village number twenty-six."

Jaune exhaled. It was beginning to look like he'd have to bust himself out. He heard Sage, Crystal, and Alana whispering amongst themselves. He couldn't quite make out what they were saying—yet. But they were growing incrementally louder—probably more animated too.

Jaune stretched his neck from side to side a few times, working out the cricks. If he broke the chair, and acted confident, and said he was going, and walked right by his sisters…would they stop him? They would be surprised, but would they draw their weapons?

Only one way to find out. He began sitting up. The chair back creaked. The rope dug into his solar plexus.

"What are you doing!?"

Jaune froze. That voice didn't belong to one of his older sisters.

"Cece, go back upstairs!" commanded Alana.

Cece, true to form, didn't acknowledge that her older sister had spoken. If Jaune remembered correctly, there were only four family members the precocious child listened to. Mom, Dad, Ellie and—sometimes—Jaune.

"Jaune!" the girl screamed, "Crystal and Alana have finally done it! They kidnapped the boy they were fighting over and then they killed him!"

Jaune laughed. He couldn't help it. It had been years since he'd heard Cece "tattle." The girl was a true youngest sibling—skilled at twisting and hyperbolizing the truth until it was near unrecognizable. She had a potent talent for causing conflict among her siblings and, when she was feeling particularly malicious, dropping them into an ocean of trouble with their parents.

Jaune heard the creaking noise of a heavy tread descending the stairs. He winced when he heard a familiar yet strangely foreign voice. The voice was high. Whiny. Naive. Ignorant. The voice was young. Too young.

"What are you talking…?" Jaune Arc, the younger, trailed off.

Jaune assumed it was because he had been spotted.

"Oh my god!"

Jaune heard the telltale sound of large bare feet slapping against concrete. his younger-self dashed to his side.

Oum. He wasn't ready for this insanity.

Hearing his voice was strange enough. Seeing him in the flesh though?

His face was unmarred. His skin was smooth and unblemished, aside from a mountainous zit on his right temple.

Oum.

That zit was almost as bad as the red runway across his face.

Jaune pulled his gaze away from the Goliath acne with the force of a wench.

The kid's haircut was better. Although, it ought to be. Fern had a talented barber. Old man Colson was a fair sight better than Ruby and her "baby."

The younger man still had baby fat, some around the face, but mostly on his body. A lot of that would go away in his first few months at Beacon but it would still be years before he looked like a man. There was a bit of peach fuzz on his chin—which, if Jaune remembered correctly, was the result of several months of facial-hair growing effort.

Jaune remembered his excitement when his peach fuzz turned into something a bit more formidable. He'd jumped up and down in front of his mirror.

Then he discovered the horrifying truth.

Facial hair sucked.

The only reason he _sometimes_ sported a beard was laziness. If he were a Schnee and could afford to hire a man whose sole job was to shave his boss while said boss played video games. Hell, that would be the end of grizzly Jaune right then and there.

The most striking difference between the boy before him and the man Jaune saw in the mirror was intangible. The boy had wide eyes. The shade was the same—but the images that flickered through those sliced-sky irises were different. He looked so worried, no doubt concerned for the man bound before him.

Jaune wondered if he was still capable of feeling such concern for a stranger? Sure, he fought to protect innocents. But those were faceless civilians, masses he would never know or care for intimately. Was he still capable of such directed personal empathy?

He doubted it.

He was fighting for Ruby and Weiss. His family. JNPR—his second family. The four kingdoms. Even all humanity.

He didn't have time to worry about one stranger tied to a chair.

"Are you okay?" asked younger Jaune.

"I'm…I'm fine." No he wasn't. He was talking with himself. And not in the way that only made him halfway crazy. "Could you sit me up?"

The younger nodded. A second later the boy lifted the chair. The rate at which the teenaged version of himself righted the chair was either the result of unnecessary thoughtfulness or a pitiful display of weakness.

Either way, it was slow going.

Fortunately, he was corrected just in time to enjoy the show.

Cece stood defiantly before one exasperated older sister, deftly refusing her requests to go back upstairs. Alana glared at Cece with a look Jaune remembered burnt his younger-self to the core.

Cece shrugged it off without blinking.

Sage had his blade again. She studied it closely, occasionally glancing at the picture of a whole Crocea Mors. Crystal glanced between him and her younger brother several times before eventually grinning.

Ah. She had realized why he looked so familiar.

She parted her lips, likely to share her discovery.

But Alana's roar distracted her, as it did Jaune.

"Who taught you that!?"

Jaune's eyes widened when he saw Cece, his darling little sister, raising her middle finger to the roof.

"Jenny taught me. She told me it means 'I'm the boss and I don't care what you say about it.'"

Well. Jenny, whoever that was, wasn't too far off.

"Cece," Alana's voice was strained. "Never do that again. Mom will kill you. And go upstairs. _Right_ now."

Cece dropped her right hand to her side only to whip up her left, flipping off Alana again. "Why would mom kill _me_? I'm not the one who tied up some guy in the basement!"

"Cece." Alana's voice grated like flint. "You—"

"Alana. Cece."

Jaune was surprised to hear his younger-self break up the two girls' argument. Young Jaune's voice was serious, absent its usual cringe-worthy qualities.

Even more surprising was the way the two girls turned towards him, lips pressed tight.

Jaune remembered getting yanked around by his sisters, a lot. He remembered them putting him in dresses and treating him like a prized commodity. He remembered them scaring off any potential love interests in school.

He _did not_ remember being able to lead or control them.

Jaune strained his neck, trying to see what kind of expression his younger-self was wearing.

No such luck. He couldn't see him.

He imagined it was probably "the-serious-leader-face" Nora had said he sometimes got. It had been primarily unconscious back then—and that was after this point in the timeline. Which meant his younger-self was entirely unaware of the effect he had.

"Cece, don't make that gesture, especially not towards the people who love you. Jenny was wrong. It means 'I hate you.'"

Cece's hand dropped immediately, a wave of guilt flashed across her expression. "I-I didn't know that."

"It's fine. Just don't do it anymore." His voice hardened. "Alana."

The girl looked nervous. Nothing his younger-self would pick up on. Her tells weren't all that visible. But Jaune could see her nerves in the way her eyes flicked to Crystal for support. Her sister looked away.

Damn. Cold.

"Why is there a man tied to a chair in our basement?"

"Well," began Alana. She glanced at Sage. Sage's eyes didn't leave the sword she was inspecting. "Sage, Crystal, and I were training, a little way out of town. Just doing some light sparring. We were on our way home when we came across this guy. He was laying in the middle of the road. We thought he was dead at first. When we realized he was alive we decided to take him to Agatha's to get him checked out—"

"Will you please hurry up and get to the part where you decided to take the injured guy prisoner?"

Teen Jaune's interruption wasn't aggressive, or even all that rude but it still had a curtness to it Jaune could not, for the life of him, recall having. He'd always assumed when Ozpin and Oscar talked about his leadership potential they'd been talking about some deep, locked away part of him. An aspect of his personality to which he would not gain access for several years.

Had it really been this obvious?

Oum. Ozpin owed him back his sense of childish wonder.

"Well, we saw he had Crocea Mors and we thought that—"

"He had dad's sword?" exclaimed young Jaune. "Is that what Sage has been looking at?"

"Yes," said Alana, "we had no idea what to do when we saw the sword. Crystal convinced me to—"

"I didn't convince anyone!" interrupted Crystal. "I made a suggestion. You made the decision and Sage is the one who said he may have attacked dad and taken the sword as a prize! Then you said—"

Crystal stopped short when she heard a rather…unpleasant noise.

The choked mixture of a sob, gasp, and a scream drew every eye in the room to Cece. Even Sage's attention was pulled away from Crocea Mors.

The small girl's eyes were saucers. Her jaw quivered. Her chest heaved. Trembling fingers flew to her mouth. It was clear, from her voice and her expression, she couldn't quite wrap her mind around what Crystal had just said. After at least fifteen seconds of silence she spoke. Her voice was small. Tiny. Microscopic even. Yet the room had gone so quiet she was heard clearly. "H-he attacked dad?"

Somehow, Jaune was the first to respond. It ripped out of him. He could not stop it. Let the other girls stew in their fear for a little while. Mathias would return home and they'd be fine, embarrassed even. Cece looked broken by the very thought of her father bleeding in a ditch somewhere, as if she would not recover if he did not reassure her _right now_. "Of course not. I'm a huntsman. I kill Grimm. Your sisters are crazy."

Alana's head swiveled from Cece to Jaune. She snapped out of the nervous stupor her younger brother had put her under. "Where'd you get the sword then!" she screamed.

"I already told you." Jaune's voice got louder, not quite a shout, but frustration leaking out of him. "It's a family heirloom!"

"I don't believe you!" she fired back.

"Well tough!" Okay. He was yelling now. But he couldn't help it. Cece looked as if she was about to have a mental breakdown and it was these idiots' fault. "Doesn't change the truth! I'm a huntsman. Not a bandit! That's my sword!"

"I'm a huntress! I've seen plenty of swords, none of them looked anything like Crocea Mors!"

"Now that's just a boldfaced lie! You haven't seen plenty of swords. No one fights with just a sword anymore!"

"Exactly! That's how I know this is my dad's!"

Another retort was on his lips but Jaune was distracted by Cece lurching towards him in a sort of sprinting dive. She collapsed to her knees before him, eyes full of water.

"Cece, get away from him!"

Get away from him indeed. If he had been a murderer his idiotic siblings would have just delivered to him the perfect hostage, served up on a silver platter. The sheer incompetence of it all was overwhelming.

"D-did you hurt my dad?" she asked, stammering through heavy breaths. "Did—" she reached up, to touch his knee but she never made it that far. Suddenly she was in younger Jaune's arms as the boy moved from behind the chair. Her hand remained outstretched, seeking reassurance that her father was coming home from the stranger tied up in her basement.

Her devastated expression was like a dagger through Jaune's heart.

He'd seen a lot of bad stuff during the war.

Mothers ripped away from their children.

Husbands from their wives.

Sisters from each other.

He'd become desensitized to most of it. The horror. The sense of loss. It was all familiar now.

But it was always worse when it was someone he loved. When they were broken… When they were hurting…

Well, that was probably the only thing left that could make him feel anything.

His anger, formerly directed at Alana, faded into obscurity. It was replaced by an acute sense of helplessness. Mathias would come home. That would solve this. It would all be fine…

But there was nothing he could do in the meanwhile.

He hated that.

"Why am I even bothering," he said, more to himself than anyone else, "there's no way you're going to believe me."

"I believe you," said Sage.

Jaune's eyes locked with his most reasonable sister. She was holding up Crocea Mors.

"This sword looks identical to our fathers…But the wear is different. It's got little faults in the edges, a pockmark near the top, slight discoloration around the hilt. This sword has seen hell and back, without a proper tune up in…potentially…years."

"What!?" hissed Alana.

She was spot on. Jaune had done what he could to maintain his weapon over the years—but there had never been enough peace for him to feel comfortable having the blade reforged, and that was the only way to erase the evidence of his last three clashes with Salem.

Sage adjusted her glasses with a slender digit. "I believe Crocea Mors and…" she glanced at Jaune's sword and then at Jaune, "…our new friend's sword were created by the same smith—and that they are even part of the same set. That is why the engravings and shape are identical. But…they are not the same blade."

"Sage," began Alana, a warning clear in her voice.

"I'm not just postulating abstractly Lani," said Sage, "nor am I even suggesting that we release…" she glanced at Jaune again, " _him_ , until we have confirmed my theory. I am simply stating that it is fairly reasonable to believe our father is fine."

Cece suddenly began struggling in teen Jaune's grip. Her legs flailed inertly as she attempted escape. "Jaune, let me go, I need to talk to Sage!"

Younger Jaune's eyes remained fixed on his older counterpart as he set down Cece. The girl stamped towards her older sisters. Sage was pointing out the small faults in the blade to Alana. Alana was looking a little queasy. Crystal just looked relieved that the situation seemed to be resolving itself.

"Is that dad's sword or not?" demanded Cece.

Alana inspected the discoloration at the hilt Sage had pointed out, angling the blade to get some light on it but not glare. "It may not be," she admitted.

That was all Cece needed to hear. She stamped her foot several times. "He's right!" She pointed at Jaune, the random stranger tied up in her basement. Her finger than traveled to her sisters. "You're crazy. All of you!"

"Cece," began Crystal.

Cece ran her over. "Don't ever scare me like that again!" With that final remark, the youngest Arc barreled towards the stairs. "I'm going to keep a lookout for dad!"

Junior Jaune was frozen, staring at his future self, a second too long. He called out after his little sister, "hey, make sure you stay…" he trailed off when he realized she was already gone.

Was that alright? Jaune knew what his younger-self was warning the girl against. He also knew she probably wouldn't listen to him. Well…it was probably fine. Nothing ever happened in Fern.

Silence reigned supreme once Cece had left. Alana continued inspecting Jaune's sword. Sage would occasionally point out some new flaw in the metal. Young Jaune and Crystal kept glancing at their guest, no doubt wondering what they should do now that their prisoner's guilt had been cast into doubt.

The subdued silence gradually began to irk Jaune. His siblings and his younger-self were acting as if taking an innocent man prisoner was the end of the world. He cleared his throat. Sage and Alana gave them their full attention.

"So, I get your dad is out on a mission. You all got a mom?"

"She's out," replied Alana, gaze narrowed.

Out huh? That much was obvious. After that shouting match a few minutes ago he had already as good as confirmed that his mother wasn't in the house. She'd have been downstairs the moment she heard his unfamiliar voice.

But she also wasn't far. She wouldn't be. Willow Arc was a dutiful wife and mother. She was also unconventional, terrifying, and fierce. But dutiful nonetheless. She wouldn't stray far from home when her husband was due.

Which meant she was out in her garden.

"Why?" asked Sage.

Jaune tilted his head to the left and stared at her.

"Why are you asking about our mother?" restated Sage.

"Isn't that obvious? I want to file a formal complaint against her psycho children."

Alana muttered something and looked away. Sage appeared vaguely bemused. Jaune looked downright horrified.

Crystal was the only one to reply.

"Well…I could get our mom. But, honestly, I don't know if she would respond much better than us if she saw that sword. Actually, I think it would be worse. Maybe even a lot worse."

Jaune considered that insight for a moment.

Oum. What was he thinking? Why would he even joke about it?

He should count his lucky stars his sisters had snuck him in past Willow Arc.

If his mom believed, for even a moment, that he had hurt or, worse yet, killed her husband…

Shit.

She would go berserk.

For the first time in this lengthy encounter Jaune had to push down a surge of nerves, to prevent it from messing with his voice. Strange. He had faced flocks of Giant Nevermores, surrounded by swarms of the smaller ones—the thought of his furious mother should not have stiffened him up this much. "I was joking. I don't want to meet any more of you crazy people. Just…make sure your dad is okay and then let me go."

Crystal nodded, clearly just as anxious as him to avoid involving their mother.

Of course, that was when Willow's voice rang out from above.

"Girls, come help with dinner."

Looked like Willow was done gardening.

Crystal shot her older sister a questioning glance.

Alana handed Crocea Mors to Sage. "It's fine. We'll go upstairs and run interference on mom. Sage, you stash his sword." She glanced at Jaune, her expression wasn't quite open, but she was certainly less hostile. "My dad normally hustles to get home before dinner. We'll return your sword to you then. Also…I'll apologize."

She looked as if she expected him to demand a lot more than an apology. She relaxed when he just rolled his eyes. "Fine. Just hurry up, I've got places to be."

Sage slid Crocea Mors into a backpack leaning against the wall and then slung the bag over her shoulders. She left first. Crystal followed. Alana left last. "Keep an eye on him Jaune."

"Eh?"

The two Jaune's exchanged a confused glance when they realized they had reacted with the same sound at the same time.

Alana was gone before either could muster a complaint. The awkward silence was strong between them. One was just an awkward teen. The other knew he and the awkward teen were the same person and he was still reeling from the implications.

He hadn't considered it in the heat of the moment earlier, but was it even safe for him to talk to his younger-self? Would it cause a time paradox? Would the act destroy the universe? Or something equally as bad?

He hoped not. He'd come back to save the world. Not destroy it more thoroughly then Salem ever could.

Best to just pretend the other Jaune wasn't there.

Jaune plopped down in front of him, ankles crossed.

"Um…so you're a huntsman, right?"

Jaune didn't say anything.

His younger counterpart continued regardless. "That's cool. My dad's a huntsman."

No kidding.

"I've been thinking I might want to be one too."

Silence.

"Any pointers?"

Oumdamn it. Weiss would have said something if this was dangerous, right? Surely the possibility hadn't slipped her mind? Did anything ever?

"Training. Lots of it," said the time traveler.

Younger Jaune looked ecstatic to have drawn a response from his suddenly taciturn companion. "I know that much! I'm strong you know. Probably not in a fight, but I can lift a bit. My dad says I'm built solid."

Jaune remembered their father saying that.

"He also says being built solid just means the sword that kills me will probably get lodged halfway through."

Jaune also remembered him saying that.

"Where should I start for real though? I know I need to work on my swordsmanship and get stronger…"

Massive understatements on both accounts.

"My dad has shown me some stuff but, apparently, I wasn't interested when I was younger, so now it's too late. My parents are convinced I'll just get myself killed if I try to become a Hunter now…"

Jaune drowned out the rest of his teen-self's rambling after that. Get himself killed? If only that was the consequence of his arrogance. He wouldn't die. Jaune Arc couldn't die.

The rest of the team he was supposed to protect though…

There wouldn't even be enough left of them for a proper burial.

No.

That was before Jaune came from the future.

Teams JNPR, RWBY, CFVY, CRDL, SSSN. They would be fine now. They would grow old together.

He'd make sure of it.

"School."

Young Jaune's rambling ended. "What?"

"You want to become a huntsman? Go to school. I recommend Beacon."

"Beacon…?" Repeated the younger Jaune.

He had heard of it. Jaune knew that because he could still remember the first time his father had spoken of Beacon—it had been years before this time—whenever this time was.

"…won't they want to see transcripts from a combat school?" finished the boy.

Jaune shrugged and delivered a few more pieces of morally questionable advice. "Lie."

"Lie?" repeated the teen incredulously, "what kind of hero would I be if I started it all with a lie?"

Jaune laughed. It was strange, rehashing these old worries. He could vaguely remember agonizing over starting his hero career with a lie—probably a few days before he procured fake transcripts—documents that, he would later discover, had never stood a chance of deceiving Ozpin. "The normal kind, kid, remember this. It took me years to realize it, so it ought to put you ahead of the game."

Young Jaune leaned in, clearly hanging on every word.

"Heroes are just normal people who everyone, _including themselves_ , expects to do the impossible. If you can't lie to everyone, _including yourself_ , you won't even be able to get up in the morning—much less do the heroics. Lie. Lie. And lie some more, until, somehow, you make all that bullshit the truth."

"You make being a hero sound terrible."

"Yeah…it's the worst."

"Maybe I should focus on my music then."

Jaune resisted the urge to burst into laughter. What the hell was he talking about? Had he ever had a smidge of musical talent? Was he referring to their ability to play a couple of notes on a guitar? Jaune struggled to remember if he had some sort of musician phase. If he could recall it, maybe that would even help him pin down the date.

For the life of him, he could not remember having ever mistaken himself as a musician. Maybe it had been one of those hour-long phases.

"You can't."

"I can't…focus on my music?"

" _Nope_." Jaune imitated his close friend's pronunciation of the word. "Once you've got the hero bug, you start blaming yourself for every bad thing that happens. You get obsessed with getting strong enough to stop more bad things from happening. And the only things that matter are the people you want to protect and the skills that will let you protect them."

"We—" young Jaune stopped short of completing a sentence. His eyes fixed straight ahead on nothing. He was listening.

Jaune followed suit.

A bell. A massive bell was ringing. Suddenly it grew louder, more obvious, and then it grew louder again.

No, the bell wasn't growing louder. More of them were ringing. Closer bells, further bells, they all melded together in one cacophony of sound that practically shook the house.

"Are those the warning bells?" asked young Jaune.

Jaune stared at his younger counterpart as if the boy had sprouted a second head.

First off, yes. Yes, those were the warning bells. What the hell else could they be?

Second, why would he, a random stranger in this town, know more about their alarm system than someone who was born and raised here?

"They normally only ring one, for a fire or something," said the boy.

Oum.

Talking to his younger-self was embarrassing.

Did he truly not understand how a city alarm worked?

Sure, Jaune couldn't remember Fern's warning system ever being put to the test…but every civvie within the town limits should still understand the basics.

"The bells are rung differently to convey different messages. Sometimes they say hey guys, help put out the fire. Sometimes they say, everyone, ring your bells together, warn the town about the mass Grimm attack."

"Mass… Grimm… attack...?" parroted young Jaune, eyes wide, fingers trembling.

"No need to look so panicked," said Jaune, "outskirt villages like this are always full of retired huntsmen and huntresses. And a couple of active ones too. If there's a Grimm incursion they'll handle it…"

The words were true but empty. There was no Grimm incursion.

Jaune knew there wasn't one because he had already lived this day.

He had already lived every day in this Jaune's life.

He would remember something like a swarm of Grimm attacking Fern. Sure, eventually, events would start to diverge from his memory of them—thanks to his own influence. But everything should still be the same for now. He had only been here a couple of hours and he hadn't done anything yet.

Although…

A full-alert alarm? All six watch towers ringing? And the town center bell as well? There weren't many things that could trigger that other than a Grimm incursion. He could count the number of alternate possibilities on one hand.

Flood?

Wasn't raining.

Bandit attack?

Not in this area.

Rapidly spreading fire?

Wasn't dry enough.

Huh.

But if a Grimm attack was the only option…

And he didn't remember a Grimm attack ever happening…

Oum.

Had he somehow managed to change the timeline already?

But what had he done that could cause a Grimm incursion?

Wait. Grimm incursion.

Hadn't he just fought a Grimm incursion? A massive one? They were drawn to the…

The portal.

Creating the portal had attracted hundreds—potentially thousands of Grimm. What if it had a similar effect on the other side? Even if the portal was only open for a few seconds in this time, would that be enough to summon the nearby Grimm for a juicy civilian snack?

It felt about right.

The universe wouldn't let him cheat, travel back in time, _and_ catch his breath.

Well, jokes on the universe. There were plenty of huntsmen in Fern. They'd be fine. Jaune didn't have to do a thing.

"Cece,"

The raspy, stricken, terrified voice yanked Jaune from his thoughts. Jaune peered into his younger-self's constricted pupils. He watched the color retreat from his cheeks and his jaw began to tremble.

Cece…?

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

Where was it Cece liked to wait for their father? Outside the wall?

Younger Jaune's feet moved before the rest of his body had time to register what was happening, like one of those cartoons where the character's feet disappeared offscreen before the rest of the body followed. The clumsy boy fell to the ground as he scrambled towards the stairs. He caught himself but not well, one of his fingers was bent back awkwardly.

Not that the kid would notice any time soon.

One thing that hadn't changed in the past decade: how easily Jaune could ignore pain when he was awash in adrenaline and terror—not so much when it was for himself—but when it was for someone he cared about…

Jaune would charge into a beowolf's maw without aura for his sisters.

And that was exactly what that naïve idiot was about to do.

"Jaune!" Jaune used his commanders voice. The voice he had used to roar orders over a sea of Grimm. The voice he had used to bring The Crimson Reaper herself out of a violence induced rampage, killing thousands of Grimm in minutes.

His younger-self didn't want to stop. He didn't want to turn. But he had to. He was compelled. There was no arguing with the authority in his tone. No brokering.

"Untie me! I'll save your sister!"

Young Jaune began to turn, "you don't even know…"

"She's at the west gate, in the tree right!?"

That stopped the boy again. "H-how—"

"It's my semblance," Jaune lied. "I'm faster than you. I'm stronger than you. You can't help her. I can."

Indecision flickered across his features.

"You can't help her Jaune. I can," said Jaune, from between gritted teeth. Why the hell was it taking him this long to make a decision? He had two choices! Go out there and get himself _and_ Cece killed? Or free the real huntsman who ate situations like this for breakfast? What was this crippling inability to react? To respond? It made Jaune furious. Was he furious at the boy in front of him or himself?

Was it the same thing?

Jaune growled when the boy remained frozen. At this point wouldn't it be faster for him to free himself?

The teenager finally moved. He slid to a halt on his knees. He reached hesitantly for the ropes binding Jaune's arms. He paused inches away from one. "W-will you really help h—"

"Want some advice for becoming a hero?" asked Jaune, pushing back against the chair as hard as he could. The chair protested. Jaune ignored the furniture's complaint. Like a coiled spring, his body jerked forward and down. He folded as if he were performing a crunch. His abdomen screamed at the sudden exertion. His ribs creaked ominously as he crushed them against his bindings.

The spine of the chair snapped like a femur.

Little Jaune screamed when a brick forehead collided with his nose. He fell back onto his butt, using his hands to slide himself away from his assailant.

Hm, so he was still conscious. Looked like dad was right. Aura or no aura, Jaune Arc was built solid.

Jaune glanced at the bindings that were still in place. His legs were still bound to the seat's legs and his arms to the seat's arms. He needed to take out the rest of this goddamn chair in one swoop.

Easy.

"Learn how…" began Jaune, as he leaned back once again. This time there was nothing to obstruct his motion so he brought himself back into a near reclining position, just on the verge of tipping backwards. He pushed up on the balls of his feet.

"…to make…" Jaune threw his upper body forward and pushed off on the balls of his feet. He, and the remains of his chair, went airborne. Not very high. But he didn't need to be high. He just needed the backside of the chair to be the first thing to hit the ground.

Wood splintered and pricked at his aura as his bodyweight obliterated the rest of the chair.

"an Oumdamn decision!"

Jaune sprinted by his shocked younger-self, tossing away the chair arms and legs still attached to his body—but not the chair—as he took the stairs two at a time. He arrived in the main hall.

The shape and all was still the same from when he, Ruby, and Weiss were living here.

But it was whole. There were no tears or rips. No claw marks. There were even happy family portraits on the walls. Jaune would have liked to spend a few hours memorizing every one of them, locking away his own collection of portraits in a vault deep inside him.

But there wasn't time to even look at those pictures. Grimm incursions started outside of the town. Cece was outside of the town.

There were his sisters, hastily changing in the hall. They were stripped down various degrees. On had on a bra. The other two wore camisoles. One had gym shorts. The other two were in their underwear.

They had probably slipped out of their combat uniforms and gear when their mother had requested their assistance in the kitchen. Bad timing.

Jaune was already upon them by the time they noticed his presence.

Behind them, watching the girls change was…

Jaune's breath caught. His mother. His dear mother.

Her eyes widened when she saw him. "Who ar—"

Jaune didn't hear her finish the question. He had already blown by her, thrown open the front door, and closed it behind him.

He took off into the fray. Every step on the town's dirt roads kicked up a small cloud. He pumped his arms. He sucked in air.

He was sprinting from the beginning. Fern blurred around him as he dashed past shops, neighbors, and friends he had grown up with.

He could only see what was in front of him.

Grimm.

There were quite a few of them.

Nothing like what he and Ruby had been holding off before, no Nuckelavees, no Deathstalkers—certainly no Dragons—mostly just Beowolves and a few Ursa. He heard the cries of some nevermore as well, but their screams were the pitch of the normal sized ones. Those were only dangerous if they swarmed—and even then, he could put them down before they managed to put a dent in his aura.

There was nothing here that could hurt him. He, Ruby, and Weiss probably wouldn't have even bothered with a battle formation if they were walking through an abandoned village with this few Grimm.

But there was a big difference between the number of Grimm it took for a Hunter to be concerned about their own life, and the number of Grimm it took to make protecting a spread out civilian population difficult. One hunter could only cover so much area—well—unless they were Ruby. She had once cleared a Grimm incursion of hundreds by herself without a single casualty among the villagers. The villagers had called her the red phantom, because of how she appeared dispatched every Grimm in the area in an instant and then all but vanished. She'd been crushed to hear the village had fallen a few weeks after she left.

Come to think of it, Weiss had done something like that as well. She had summoned a horde of her own Grimm to singlehandedly protect hundreds of civilians and fight off the Grimm threat.

So maybe Jaune was the only one who had limits to how much area he could cover.

That was fine. He knew where his talents lay.

They weren't in fighting thousands of enemies. They weren't in protecting communities from a million small threats.

Jaune's legs started to burn much sooner than they usually did. He'd only been sprinting fifteen or twenty seconds. Why the sudden exhaustion?

Ah. He hadn't slept nor eaten since his fight in the future.

Not that it mattered.

Like a little thing like exhaustion would stop him from saving his little sister.

From what he could tell, the Grimm were entering the city from the North and East gates. That was good. Very good. Maybe Cece wasn't even in danger. Maybe he would push himself to the limits of exhaustion, only to find Cece perfectly safe, perched in the same tree Jaune once climbed when awaiting his father's return.

That would be amazing.

It would be perfect.

Jaune sped up.

Unfortunately, Jaune Arc's life didn't do "perfect." Or "amazing." It did " _engh…_ " or "abject-misery"

Jaune ran by Beowolves and Ursa throwing themselves at doors. He wasn't overly concerned about the civilians, at least a quarter of those doors had a hunter or ex-hunter behind them. He was sure they'd assist their neighbors after they dispatched the threat to their own home and family.

In fact, there were already several hunters out dealing with the horde.

So, the town would be fine.

Jaune was glad for that.

Mostly because he wouldn't have slowed even if he was needed.

No. Fern was not the priority.

An Ursa barreled to him. The moment it lunged he vaulted over it. He could dispatch it with his bare-hands, sure. But he had already abandoned any action, any idea, any _thought_ , that would cause him to lose momentum. That would stop his feet from pounding the ground.

There was a Beowolf in his path. He ducked low a little, plowed into it, lifted and heaved. The beast landed behind him, probably minorly confused, as Grimm sometimes got when they could not comprehend what had just occurred.

From what he could tell, Grimm were coming from two directions

Jaune's eyes finally fixed on the western gate. It felt as if it had taken him ages to get those great wooden doors in sight. But, considering Fern's size, it had probably only been a little more than a minute.

He was close.

And he didn't like what he saw.

An Ursa paw sideswiped him. He spun with the blow and kept running.

There it was, the western entrance to Fern. The sixteen-foot-tall wooden doors normally separated Fern from the horrors of the wilds. Today they were bent in awkwardly, the great wooden beam that usually sealed them had snapped.

Jaune had seen it a dozen times before. A horde of Grimm would throw themselves at a door.

Not the walls.

The door.

Grimm were mindless beasts. There was no doubt of that—although there were exceptions. Jaune thought back to that talking Nuckelavee from his third encounter with Salem. He still shivered when he remembered that eternally amused screeching voice.

But that was aside the point. The point was that, generally, Grimm were dumb creatures, filled with thoughtless aggression. But Salem had always made sure they were surprisingly skilled at identifying structural weaknesses.

It was the combined weight of a relentless mob, all pressing on a single point, that eventually brought down the door, window, or whatever the lead Grimm had chosen as a target.

As it was, the western entrance hadn't fallen. The doors had buckled. But they had not caved.

For some reason, that was worse.

The Grimm had started their assault but stopped? Were they distracted by something on the other side? Something Like Cece?

He needed to get passed that wall.

Should he mess with the door? No, Oum knew how stuck those giant oaken things might be. Should he take the thirty second hit of looping around to the storm drain Cece had used to get out there?

He felt sick.

In situations like this thirty seconds was the difference between someone being safe, alive, huggable, kissable…

And being torn, ripped, and reduced to literal shreds.

He spotted a supply shed few feet to the right of the door. It was an old rotten wooden rig, probably used to hold equipment for maintaining the wall and gates. Oil for the hinges, tar, cement, that sort of stuff.

It looked as if it could barely support its own weight. But it _was_ right on the wall…

Which meant it was perfect.

Jaune ran straight at the wall, just to the left of the storage shed. He jumped just before the inevitable collision. His feet met the wall about five feet up. He sprung off the vertical surface to the right. He landed atop the shed. He could feel the unstable edifice buckling beneath him.

But it didn't matter. He sprung off the collapsing roof, arms reaching, fingers outstretched.

Three of his fingertips met the ledge. That was all he needed. He latched on. He regripped with his right hand. His biceps flexed.

He was atop the wall—for an instant and then he was dropping onto the other side. He screamed out Cece's name at the top of his lungs as he fell. He rolled as he landed, dispelling some of the force.

There were trees. Trees everywhere. But which one was the one he had showed Cece?

And Grimm, there were Grimm too.

Well, the remains of them.

Still fading Grimm limbs, heads, and bodies laid scattered about, slaughtered with the efficiency of an experienced huntsman. Jaune was briefly reminded of the battlefields from the war. So many Grimm, so much killing. The beasts hardly had time to fade before they were replaced with their brethren.

Who had done this? It must have been a group. There were too many Grimm simultaneously decaying for it to have been a single huntsman.

Unless there was an S-ranked huntsman like who called Fern home. But he would remember if he'd grown up next to a huntress of Ruby's or Weiss's or Glynda's caliber. His father was a low A-rank at best—and it was possible he was the best Fern had to offer.

"Cece!" he screamed, expelling all questions not directly related to the whereabouts of his sister. Figuring out who killed those Grimm didn't matter.

Only Cece mattered.

"Cece!" he cried again.

He held his breath as he waited, hoped, and prayed for an answer. It burned. He had ran the whole way here. His lungs craved oxygen as if he'd swam. But what if Cece had fled? What if his panting drowned out her distant response?

After several seconds, he gasped, giving in to his body's weakness. He needed air.

Oum, could he just have this one? Just this once? He'd become religious, worship Monty, take up the cloth—after ramming Crocea Mors down Salem's throat of course—whatever it took. Just let Cece be alright.

Silence.

Maybe not "alright." Maybe that was too much to ask of a god who, apparently, hated him.

He'd settle for alive—savable—even if only just barely.

"Cece!" he cried out a fourth time.

A rustling to his right caught his attention. He whirled, arms raised and fists clenched. Were there more Grimm in the area? Hard to believe considering how thoroughly it had been cleared.

But even the best huntsmen made mistakes.

Tension fled his burning limbs. His heart calmed. His eyes watered. Cece stumbled through some underbrush, cradling a badly broken arm. Her bone had not torn through skin but pressed up against it, stretching it like fabric, producing an agonizing tent. There was dirt on her face and gold leaves, orange stems, and red petals in her hair

"Where did you go?" sobbed the girl. "I was so scared."

Where had he gone…?

What did she mean?

"Dad," she cried between gasps.

Did she think he was her father?

Was she just crying out for him?

Jaune mentally pinched himself. It didn't matter.

What Cece was saying didn't matter.

The girl was delirious and in intense pain. She needed help, not questions. He gave her as easygoing of a smile as he could muster. She wasn't in any condition to return that nicety. But there was a glimmer of relief in her azure eyes.

That would have to do for now.

He began to approach her. Ten, maybe fifteen feet away.

It happened quickly from there.

Branches snapping. Leaves brushing. Quieter than Cece—but purposefully so.

Cece turned. Her mouth was stretched in a screaming position but only a breathy rasp escaped her. The lone Beowolf was mid-lunge, flesh ripping teeth and claws stretched out towards her pale face.

The scream lodged in her chest came bursting out a second later. It ended in some confusion, when she realized the Beowolf had not bitten her.

She panted, wide-eyed, trembling like a massage chair.

She looked down at the Beowolf corpse twitching at her feet. Its concave head was only a few inches in front of her sneakers. The small puff of dirt kicked up by the head's collision with ground was still settling. The Grimm's body began to disintegrate.

She looked from the decaying monster to the man who had just obliterated it with his fist. She looked back at the monster. She looked at him. "H-how—?"

Jaune gently swept the girl into a bridal carry. The eleven-year-old released a small, mouse like noise and then a wail when her arm was jostled. "Keep your arm steady okay? Rest it on your other arm and try not to let it move. Okay?"

The girl nodded. She was still shaking though and her chest was heaving.

Jaune took a few steps.

She settled a little.

He stepped on a twig.

She yelped.

Her whole body jerked and her breathing, which had just started to calm, took off again. Her initial cry was accompanied by a second, this time in pain rather than terror, when the sudden motion shifted her injured arm.

Jaune's heart hurt. Seeing her so afraid made him want to kill everything in Remnant that had the potential to scare her.

Unfortunately, that feat was outside of his ability.

"It's fine now," he cooed, "you're with me. You're safe."

She looked up at him, eyes glazed in terror, body shaking.

He wasn't sure what she saw in his eyes—what any of the people who had looked to him as a hero saw in his eyes—but, somehow, it calmed her.

Gradually, the terror in her face and her quaking body was replaced by relief, evidenced by the way she relaxed in his arms.

Jaune kept a careful eye out for lingering Grimm as he made his way to the western gate. The damage to the doors looked just as bad from the outside as it did from within. There was no way those warped doors were going to open easily—even if the bar that usually kept them shut was broken.

The state of the gate left him in an unfortunate predicament.

Obviously, he couldn't go back in to Fern the same he had left.

Not while carrying Cece.

He could get these doors open. It would take some effort but he could do it.

But he'd have to set Cece down.

Maybe the best way to get back in to Fern would be through that storm drain?

His mulling was interrupted by a voice from behind, a shout. Jaune turned. There was a man running towards him at top speed. He handled the uneven dirt road at a breakneck pace with the ease of someone who was accustomed to less sure footing. His voice grew louder as he drew closer.

"I heard the bells! Hey! I heard the bells!"

Jaune watched that familiar blonde nest approach. It was almost the same as the one in his reflection—only this one was the original.

Cece's watery eyes sparked to life and a toothy grin graced her lips. "Dad," she cried out.

He was already sprinting, but when Mathias Arc heard his daughter's voice he somehow ran even faster.

Mathias arrived a few seconds later, panting, but upright. His eyes flick from Jaune, to the damaged gates, beyond and finally to his daughter. His expression was guarded, suspicious, curious, too many thoughts and emotions pulsed behind those eyes to decide on any one?

"He your dad?" Jaune pretended to confirm with Cece.

Cece nodded happily.

Jaune stepped forward, offering the girl to her father.

Mathias accepted the burden immediately. He dropped to his knees and gently set her bottom half on the ground. He whispered to his daughter, holding her tightly with his left arm, and catalogued her injuries with his right.

Jaune inspected the doors. They were warped sure, but the right one looked as if he'd still be able to push it open. The hinges on the right weren't as grotesquely mutilated as the hinges on the left.

He glanced back at Mathias. The man had produced a small red bag. He bit off the cap of a hypodermic needle and assured his daughter—who was not a fan of needles—that this would help make the pain go away.

It took a moment, but Cece eventually decided she disliked broken-in-half arms more than she disliked small needles. So, she took her drugs.

Once his daughter was safely in his own arms and he'd ensured she was not in any immediate danger and he'd mitigated as much of her pain as he could, Jaune's old man proved a bit more sociable.

"What happened?" asked Mathias.

"Grim incursion. Pretty big one." Jaune dug in his feet and pushed the door. It slid, slowly but surely. The hinges squealed, and wood grated. Once the gap between the two doors was big enough for a grown man carrying an injured child to step through Jaune stepped back. He motioned to the opening, "After you."

Mathias gave him an easy smile. "No, no. After all the work you just put into opening it, it's only fair for you to go through first."

Jaune considered pointing out that the man with his arms full of injured civilian should really be the first one back behind the safety of the walls. But he chose not to.

He understood the man's hesitation. Jaune was clearly a trained huntsman. Mathias wasn't about to offer him a turned back. Jaune had no such inhibition against showing his back—since he was somewhat confident his father wouldn't stab him in it.

Besides, now that he thought about it, there could be more Grimm waiting just inside the walls of Fern than there were just outside.

Jaune answered his father with an easygoing shrug and slipped between the doors. Mathias entered slower, careful not to bump. Jaune was happy to see that Fern was still in one piece and that all that remained of the Grimm were a few annoying Nevermores. Fortunately, there was a man blasting them out of the sky with a shotgun…shotgun…hoe?

Was that a shotgun built into a garden hoe?

Was it that much stranger than a sniper rifle built into a scythe…?

Yes.

Yes, it was.

It was, perhaps, the next level of insanity. Would it ever stop?

The two huntsmen fell into an easy pace beside one another.

"So, who are you?" asked Mathias.

Jaune used the diamond laced steel trap of a brain he had spent the last decade refining to field the question. "Name's John."

Oum. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Ha, Mathias, I have a son named _Ja_ -une." Mathias placed extra emphasis on the pronunciation difference.

No kidding.

"So, John," continued Mathias, "I know my daughter likes to wait for me outside the gates—", he glanced down sharply at the girl in his arms, "—even though I've told her a thousand times not to leave Fern without her older sisters…"

Cece feigned sleep, a small smile tugging at her lips. Huntsman painkillers, they worked fast.

"Am I correct in assuming you saved her life out there?"

Jaune glanced at his father, his eyes were serious. He was the type of man who took the matter of debts owed and repaid as a matter of life and death.

Jaune didn't need that melodrama. Saving his sister from a Grimm incursion he had caused wasn't a favor, or him going the extra mile as a huntsman. That was his duty. "I was in the right place at the right time. I happened to be able to help."

"Still, a lesser man wouldn't have gotten involved."

Jaune resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Was he talking about civilians? Would most civilians hesitate to jump into a potential swarm of Grimm to perform a rescue? Yes. Obviously. And for good reason, considering they would not accomplish anything.

But most, if not all, of the huntsmen Jaune had grown up with at Beacon would have been pretty damn quick to get involved when a little girl's life was on the line. Cardin wouldn't have let that shit go down—even back when he was still a dick.

Or now, technically.

Huh. He'd returned to the time when Cardin was a dick hadn't he?

"A lesser man would've gotten behind those walls as quickly as possible."

Still going on about it, was he?

"Well—" began Jaune.

Cece rolled over him in her usual way. Only now, her energy manifested itself in slurred hazy speech.

"John wouldn't do that!" she proclaimed, as if the two of them were lifelong friends.

Funny how, in a way, they were.

Jaune's amusement faded as the girl continued, "John _was_ inside the walls! He was at our house. He came all the way there to save me! And he killed like, a thousand Grimm. Then he disappeared. Then he was calling out my name and then he saved me again!"

Jaune and Mathias were both confused by her story—but for different reasons.

Mathias got his question off first. "John was at our house?" All amicability faded away in an instant. His eyes narrowed and his body shifted.

How on Remnant did his father plan to fight him with an injured girl in his arms and Crocea Mors in its sheath?

Before Jaune could try to defend himself—verbally, of course—the Cece train barreled through her father's aggression.

"Well, John was passing through town and he… fell asleep on the road? Or maybe he was unconscious—that's what Alana said—but she and Sage and Crystal decided his sword looked like yours…"

"Uh-huh…", Mathias was barely listening to his daughter, his attention focused on John. Their pace back into town remained steady but the tilt of his body and the tension in his stride told Jaune he was ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. Probably to get Cece somewhere safe before the confrontation.

"So they decided to sneak him into the basement and then tie him to a chair and force him to tell them what he did to you!"

"Uh-huh…" Mathias kept moving stiffly for a moment more and then came to a complete stop. Jaune stopped alongside him, watching his father's face transform from suspicion, to shock, tinged with a little bit of horror. "What!?"

"They kept asking what he did to you. And he kept telling them he didn't do anything. But they didn't believe him until Sage said that maybe his sword isn't your sword. I knew the whole time though."

She smiled brightly at "John," once again, as if they were best friends. "I knew John wouldn't do something like that. That's why I went out to wait for you. To prove Alana and Crystal wrong."

Jaune wanted to gawk at his little sister. Even when high, she was a masterclass at pinning the blame on her siblings. Those last two lines sounded so innocent, but they were actually carefully aimed character assassination strikes, designed to remove fault from Cece for going beyond the wall.

She was adding her own sins to the pyre she was building for her sisters. Was she a monster?

"Is that true?"

Mathias's face was red. Very red. He was furious. And Jaune had a hunch it wasn't with him.

Well…this was better than his father formulating the best way to run him through with zero hands available.

Sorry girls.

"Your son is the one who asked me to go rescue Cece when the alarm went off. I was…tied to a chair at the time." It was a tweak to the truth but still mostly there.

Jaune could hear the demon Mathias sometimes borrowed from his wife when he was angry. It slipped into his voice. It was heating its pitch fork. "It seems _I_ owe you a debt and my children owe you a lengthy, heartfelt, apology along with penance."

Jaune wasn't so sure he needed all—or any—of that. "It was an honest mistake D—Mathias—no need to make it a bigger thing than it was."

The Cece train dealt with Jaune's reasonableness next. "When I came downstairs his chair was knocked over. I think they were beating him. And he was all wet. What is that thing where you put a towel over someone's face and then pour water on it?"

"Waterboarding?" asked Mathias, "how do you know about—"

Cece interrupted him. "Yeah, I bet they did that too."

"They tortured you!?" asked Mathias, the horror evident in his voice.

"No," said Jaune firmly. "All th—"

Mathias held up a hand to stop him. "We'll settle this over dinner. I'll ask my kids for their version of the story and you can make sure they don't try too…" Mathias's eyes narrowed.

Was it Jaune's imagination or had forked tongue just flicked out of his mouth?

"Alter events."

Dinner?

Seeing his family again. Sitting across from them at their large dining table. Laughing at his little sisters' antics, getting laughed at when he tried to carry a tune with his guitar.

He had dreamed of this.

So why did he feel so reluctant now.

Was it because he would be sitting across from his younger self?

Was it because he still didn't know the date and every second counted?

Or was it because his sisters had taken him prisoner and interrogated him and his father felt he owed him a blood-debt and was plotting to use him as a tool to inflict heavy psychological damage on his wayward children?

Huh.

That third one.

"I don't want to impose,"

"Nonsense, Willow always makes extra when I'm coming home from a mission."

Right, Willow Arc.

His mom.

What would he say to her?

No doubt she had—or, rather, would take it the hardest when he had—would—run away.

He was a stranger in this time, which meant he couldn't call her "mom." Even if she knew it was him and he was able call her "mom" she still wouldn't understand the guilt that ate him up inside.

What would he say?

' _hey mom, sorry for running away from home, I don't hate you or anything. I just wanted to be a hero and save the world—but I failed, which is why you and dad and everyone else died. Sorry about that?'_

"I really don't thi—" Jaune started.

"I won't take no for an answer." Mathias finished.

Well. That didn't leave Jaune with a plethora of options.

Perhaps he could run.

It looked like he'd be by himself for this mission. Ruby and Weiss must not have come through the portal.

It was the only explanation. Even if they were being stealthy, no way _Ruby_ could have resisted "helping out" during the incursion. And if the Crimson Reaper had been "helping out," every single one of the Grimm would have been dead before Jaune made it out of the house.

A solo mission.

It had been a while since he'd had one.

And it looked like this would be the most important of his career.

That's right. He couldn't afford to waste time with dinner and pleasantries.

He needed to get out there.

He needed to enact the plan.

Amber, Qrow, Roman, kids, White Fang, Cinder, Ironwood, Adam, Ruby, moon Ozpin, Whitley, Schnees, Grimm, Salem, moon.

Whoa.

That felt wrong.

Had he messed up the order already? Had he listed something twice?

No matter. He patted the book sewed snugly into the inner lining of his jacket. He had Weiss's notebook. Surely the plan would be written within.

Memorizing it all was probably just a backup, right?

Clearly he'd already tarried too long. He hadn't slept or eaten since…well…fighting a horde of grim for hours on end but that was nothing.

He was a machine, dedicated to Salem's destruction.

He would live off the land and sleep only when necessary as he searched for the place Amber would be ambushed.

It was time to stop a war before it began.

Jaune might have sprinted away from his father and sister, out of Fern and into the wilderness that very moment, if not for his father's timely question.

"So, where's this sword?"

"Huh?" replied Jaune dumbly.

"This sword that looks so much like mine my daughters assumed you had murdered me and decided to torture you for information?"

Jaune briefly rehashed the day's events. Where was Crocea Mors?

Ah. Now he remembered.

Had he seriously been about to run off into the wilderness without his partner?

Well…

Shit.

Looked like he was going to dinner.

 **So… you may have noticed something weird about this chapter. It's all one monstrous take. No cuts, no perspective changes. And even some pretty static environments. Now most of my chapters won't be like this, but I took this as a personal challenge when I saw the possibility here. I've always really liked scenes in movies that were all done in one shot. The dialogue and characters have to naturally peak and flatten, generating conflict and resolution in real time. You can't just cut from a realization or an encounter to action or conflict. You have to build all of those things with the characters and setting you have available.**

 **The weirdest part for me is that this 13k+ chapter, which is almost a quarter length of some short books, all takes place in less than an hour in the stories time. And all the beats for the chapter are jammed in there somehow.**

 **It was a challenging write—hopefully you guys enjoyed the result.**

 **Still no beta, so I'm the only one whose read this, which means it might be a train-wreck someone else might have seen and gone "ADD SOME SCENE CUTS DEAR GOD!" If so, whoops.**

 **I'm putting this date out here for the next chapter: September 30** **th**

 **Be aware, I've set up this story in my rotation as biweekly. And once I've set everything in stone I'll lock into it.**

 **But there's a fourth story I want to add to my rotations…**

 **And I've got a job that involves even more writing…**

 **And this chapter is clocking in at nearly 14,000 words…**

 **So this may wind up being a tri-weekly fic.**

 **Kay?**

 **Kay.**

 **Fave, Follow, Review, etc…**

 **As per usual, didn't have much time to go over this, especially since I need to jump right into writing Guitar Huntsman. Sorry for the little stuff.**

 **-Vronsurd**


	3. Of Dinner, Daughters, and Determination

**Hola peeps. Quick question before I get back to work. Do you guys think I should get rid of Ruby and Weiss as a couple on the character list? I think a lot of people are coming into this looking for Whiterose fluff and this…well…**

 **It ain't.**

 **Sure, Ruby and Weiss are going to be in the story again sooner rather than later (I promise) but I mean…would it make more sense to list them separately or maybe make the character list Jaune and some of the teams? Jaune is the main character of this fic, but the site has this stupid thing where couples automatically get pushed above solo characters-no matter what. If you have any thoughts, please share.**

 **Also in the last chapter of this fic. I put up September 30** **th** **as a tentative update date. I explained this could wind up being a triweekly fic and that I'm working on some other stuff so it might not come out on that date.**

 **Imagine my surprise when I get messages on October 1** **st** **demanding the next chapter and threatening me about dropping the fic.**

 **Scary stuff.**

 **I'm going to keep this one biweekly and the updates will be more regular now.**

 **Please don't actually figure out where I live.**

 **As per usual, no Beta so please forgive.**

 **Now, onto the story:**

Of Dinner, Daughters, and Determination

Jaune stared at his bare feet, each positioned a few inches to the right and left of the drain. A thin white line stretched across his right foot, a reminder of a battle from his past. Only, he couldn't quite remember the battle.

It should have stood out from all the others, after all, he'd been stabbed with a cursed blade of some kind. He remembered that, a bone-white knife, cleaving through his aura. He also remembered his foe saying the short-sword caused wounds that would never cease bleeding, wounds that would never heal.

Supposedly, it was a blade that could kill with a paper cut.

Supposedly.

Jaune's aura had healed the injury in a few seconds. He'd never encountered a wound his aura hadn't been able to heal.

Still, the blade must have been something special. Jaune's aura rarely left traces of his wounds behind.

That wasn't to say that Jaune's body was not covered in scars—it was, many larger and more grotesque than the one across his face. But most of those blemishes had come from three very specific battles, against one very specific foe.

But Salem had never stabbed him there.

So, who had he been fighting?

Jaune turned up the water's heat, resigning himself to forgetfulness. He closed his eyes and faced the deluge.

Oum. This felt good.

It had been a long time since he'd had a shower.

He'd had several baths in the days leading up to his journey through time. Weiss's semblance made filling a bath tub with hot water a simple matter.

But there was something about the water beating down on him. It felt better than a soak.

He could have stayed like that for hours.

But he didn't have that kind of time. And this wasn't his bathroom. Well, actually, it was. But only sort of. And no one in his family knew that.

How weird would it be if he, a total stranger, accepted his hosts' generous offer of a shower, and kept going until the hot water ran out?

It would be a very Crystal thing to do.

In other words, horrible.

Jaune grabbed his younger self's body wash. The yellow banner reading, "Limited Edition," caught his attention. He read a little further. The soap was infused with _"The Irresistible Scent of Pumpkin Pete."_ Jaune squinted at the caption a few times.

Did it actually smell like…?

Jaune leaned out of the water and flipped open the top. He performed a quick sniff test.

He jerked away from the absurd concoction. The soap smelled like pumpkin and diabetes.

Who on Remnant was this supposed to be irresistible too? Four-year-old sugar terrorists?

Jaune glanced at the other bottles on the ledge. Rose, that was Amber's. Cherry, that was Cece's. Vanilla with cucumber extract…? Probably Ellie.

The other two sounded too strong. Jaune decided to borrow Ellie's. He squeezed a generous amount into his hand. He started with his hair.

The scent of cucumber was at least a hundred times stronger than the vanilla.

Oum, it was obnoxious.

Jaune hoped it only bothered him so much because of his trained senses. Otherwise he'd probably get a few weird looks during dinner.

Ah, yes. Dinner. With his family. With his younger self.

Jaune groaned.

What the hell was he doing?

He needed Crocea Mors back. That's why he was here.

But was it really?

How long had it been since he awoken in this new world? An hour? An hour-and-a-half?

He was an adult. A warrior. A leader of men.

But he could feel himself slipping back into his old role.

Jaune Arc, the guy who'd happily get yanked around by his family.

First, they'd tied him to a chair. Now they'd roped him into a dinner.

There was some irony there. But Jaune could not find much amusement in it. He needed to…to…

He needed to figure out what happened to Weiss and Ruby. He knew Ruby had tossed him through the portal. He knew that much. But the whole world had gone dark after he was attacked.

Speaking of which, who had attacked him? Was that a less important question than what happened with Ruby and Weiss?

There was no way the Grimm Reaper and the Angel of Death would have sat back and done nothing during a Grimm attack if they had come through. Nor would they have left him lying in the middle of the road for his sisters to find...

That should have been enough to convince Jaune that he was alone. And if it had been, Jaune wasn't sure what that belief would do to him. He'd probably feel broken. Shredded.

But then he'd get back on mission. He was a soldier. If he didn't have that—especially if his teammates were gone—he had nothing.

As it was, this entire train of thought was hypothetical. Ruby and Weiss were fast. Extremely fast. The idea that Ruby could only manage to get Jaune through the portal…

Not Weiss? Not herself?

Ludicrous.

The thought of Ruby not making it through was ludicrous.

But…

So was the idea of her and Weiss leaving him there, unconscious.

Damn it.

What was he supposed to think?

Perhaps the couple was attacked immediately after exiting the portal, just like him? Only they'd been taken by his attacker, perhaps before his sisters arrived?

It was a bad thought. What if they were chained up somewhere, in need of rescue? Could Jaune afford the time it would cost to look for them?

Jaune shut off the water when he finished rinsing the soap he'd lathered over himself.

If Ruby and Weiss hadn't come through the portal…

Did that mean he'd never see them again?

Was that…it?

He could still save them, save everyone, by changing this world. But would he have to do it alone? Could he do it alone?

Goddamnit.

Why hadn't they come through?

Jaune retrieved his towel and dried himself.

He hated this. He hated feeling so out of his element. These "multi-variable inquiries," as Weiss would call them, were not Jaune's forte. He was a good leader, and a damn fine strategist, but that was when he was working with the known, when he was solving problems that made sense.

Needed someone to lead an army of soldiers and civilians to defend a city from an onslaught?

Jaune was your man.

Needed someone to figure out how to stop a siege by an unstoppable force of Grimm?

Jaune was the one to call.

Needed someone to figure out how to alter the space-time continuum?

Or to translate long-forgotten runes mapping the location of an ancient apocalyptic weapon?

That was more of a Schnee thing.

Weiss _or_ Whitley would suffice…

Although one came along with a serving of ego that Jaune found near intolerable.

Jaune slipped into the clothes his father had provided him. Jaune was the same height as his father so the pants fit fine. But the shirt was tight around his shoulders and chest, causing it to feel a little short on him. It wasn't a terrible fit, he'd just have to be careful not to let it ride up on him.

Jaune watched himself in the mirror as he pushed wet hair out of his eyes. His scar was as prominent as ever. For once, he was thankful for the strip of pink skin. It would help distinguish him from younger Jaune. Sure, he'd still look like an Arc, there wasn't much he could do to stop that. But, between his facial hair, his musculature, and his scars he didn't resemble his former self _too_ strongly so that was good.

He had toyed briefly with the idea of convincing his family that he was Jaune Arc, sent from the future to protect the past.

But he had discarded the notion.

He would waste too much time attempting to convince them, and, in the end, they still might not have believed him. Also, there was no logical reason for them to know. They weren't a part of the plan. Saving them—and the rest of humanity—was a part of the plan…but his family would not play a role in that endeavor.

If Jaune had his way, the world would never know how close they had come to destruction. The chain of misery and despair that drew the Grimm like fillings to a magnet would never begin.

Jaune Arc would end Salem not with a bang, but with a whimper.

That was the plan at least.

But what was that saying about plans and contact with the enemy?

Jaune reached for the black book resting on the sink. Weiss's journal. It made him nervous to be separated from the precious tome, although ninety-five percent of the content within was completely unintelligible to him. And anyone else who couldn't understand a calculus that Weiss had, more likely than not, invented for her glyph casting. He was holding on to it for her—and he had every intention of returning it.

The journal had been sewed into his jacket but he had removed it when his mother offered to wash his clothes.

After adjusting his hair one final time. Jaune exited the bathroom. It was strange, walking down that familiar hallway without shoes. It was an odd thing to find…well…odd. But Jaune could not remember the last time he had not laced up his boots immediately after bathing.

After all, in his world, one never knew when a Grimm attack would take place.

Jaune was surprised to find his younger self seated on the steps, waiting for him.

"Hey John," young Jaune waved, standing hastily.

Jaune took in his younger counterpart's expression.

He was smiling a bit. His cheeks were rosy. And his nose looked crooked and discolored.

"Hi," greeted Jaune in return. "Sorry about the…" He motioned towards his own nasal region.

"Don't worry about it," said his younger self, waving again, this time in dismissal. "You saved Cece's life even after we treated you like a criminal—you can headbutt me as many times as you want."

"I think once will be enough, but I'll let you know in advance if I need more."

Teen Jaune cracked a wide grin. "Cool, my mom asked me to lead you to the dining room. I told her you're a huntsman and can probably find your own way…especially since the dining room is right at the bottom of these stairs."

"My tracking is decent Jaune. But my ability to get hopelessly lost is legendary."

Young Jaune proceeded down the steps, motioning for his older self to follow him.

"Any idea where your sister stashed my sword?" asked Jaune as they descended.

Teen Jaune shook his head. "Sage is good at hiding things. Really good. But I'm sure she'll give it back to you after dinner."

"After dinner, huh…?" Jaune muttered.

Well, that settled that.

###

The tension in the room was dense, like half-set cement. It was tension so thick that Crocea Mors wouldn't cut through it.

And Crocea Mors cut through just about everything.

Mathias sat at the head of the table, glaring at three of his daughters. Wow. It was well known among the Arc children that you had royally screwed up when their father was angry. Mom was the disciplinarian of the family, and what a scary force of nature she was. But when Mathias snapped and entered the role—well mistakes had probably been made. Willow sat to Mathias's left. Unlike her husband, the Arc matriarch was not glaring at her children. Her expression was so casual and mundane that most strangers would have assumed she was happy.

But Willow Arc loved to look at her children.

All of them.

When she refused to look at one or a few of them she was pissed. Her wrath would manifest fully when she finally deigned the girls worthy of eye contact.

Jaune groaned. He remembered these sorts of dinners.

Oum, they were the worst.

The seat to Mathias's immediate right was open. Beside that open chair sat three thoroughly chastised girls. Alana and Crystal refused to look up from their plates. Sage, a fair sight less timid than the other sisters—but still lacked her usual inquisitive energy.

Opposite Jaune's captors were his four other sisters. Cece, Mist, Ellie, and Aren. Ellie studied him with a reserved and icy demeanor—damn, he forgot how much that girl was like Weiss. Cece was looking up at him with nothing less than adoration. Mist's head was cocked to the side and her eyes wide. And Aren was sizing him up with a calculating demeanor.

Well…at least the spread looked good. And it smelled delicious.

Jaune hadn't had an Arc family meal since he was seventeen.

"I think that's your seat," said young Jaune, motioning to the unoccupied chair across from their mother and to the right of their father.

Ah. Right in the thick of things. That was…great.

Jaune shuffled to his spot. He rested Weiss's journal on his lap as he struggled to look…

Certain…? Confident…? Normal…?

Something other than freaking the hell out.

Young Jaune took his place next to Saige.

Mathias spoke, "Girls, isn't there something you'd like to say to John?"

Ha! Like it was going to be that easy. Pulling apologies out of his sisters was like pulling the horns off a red-haired bull faunus with your bare hands…

The joy was in the challenge.

Or so he imagined.

"John," began Alana. "I, and my sisters, are _so_ sorry—about everything. We thought—well when we saw your sword…"

"We assumed the worst," filled in Crystal. "And that wasn't fair to you."

There was a moment of silence.

Jaune wondered if it was his turn to speak. He hoped not. He had no idea what to say. He had expected those apologies to take a few… _hours_ longer. His sisters had never apologized to him that fast—ever.

Oh.

That's right. They weren't his sisters. They had no idea he was their younger brother. To them, he was a stranger who they had practically abused and tortured. If they'd known he was Jaune they would probably be arguing that he deserved every bit of his harsh treatment.

There was a light slapping noise. Jaune did not see the source but he knew it originated to his left.

"What?"

It was Sage's voice.

"Your turn," hissed Crystal.

"Really? I thought the two of you performed adequately. What is left to say?"

"Sorry," said Alana, glancing at their mother nervously. "That's all you have to say Sage. Just say sorry."

"I am apologetic for John's less than pleasant experience in our home. And I agree with you Crystal. It was not fair to him. But considering the evidence before us I do not believe we responded incorrectly."

"Sage," Alana growled.

"I am more than willing to take responsibility for any inconvenience we might have caused you John—however, I believe our actions were reasonable given the circumstances."

Jaune watched his parents' expressions from the edge of his vision. Mathias's anger was slipping into downright exasperation. And much more terrifying, were the cracks appearing in his mother's façade.

Sage continued. "That said, I do think Alana's fuller apology was necessary—for her inability to take a closer look at the evidence afterwards. Much of her aggression seemed baseless and logically unsound. Additionally, I—"

"Sage," interrupted a new voice.

Jaune turned towards his closest sibling, Ellie—also known affectionately as mini-mom. She was the fifth child in of the Arc brood, a little over a year younger than Jaune. The two had always been close growing up but they couldn't be more different. Whereas Jaune happily served as a collective punching bag for his siblings—and sometimes his mother, Ellie got respect from the entire Arc family—even her older siblings. Mostly because, well…

She demanded that shit.

"You're not apologizing because your actions were unreasonable. You're apologizing because of the impact your actions had on John. Levelheadedness does not excuse your behavior."

"But I—"

Ellie cut her off. "Think about it for a second Sage. What would the implications of a world where the reasonableness of an action dictated that action's morality?"

Sage was silent for a moment. "That would cause…conflicts."

"So, you're applying a standard to your own situation that is logically unreliable when applied to morality universally?"

Goddamn, were mom and dad certain they hadn't adopted this girl from the Schnees?

Sage spoke, this time addressing him, "I'm sorry too John."

Another Schnee in the Arc family. Bowing only to cold logic—well that and—if they were a real Schnee—Ruby's second weapon of mass destruction, her pout.

Jaune glanced around the now quiet table. Was it his turn to speak, now? He parted his lips.

Willow was faster. "And from the rest of our family, you have our unconditional gratitude. If Cece had…" her voice wavered. "If you hadn't…" Mathias latched onto his beloved's hand.

Jaune cleared his throat, determined to stop this before it became a cry-fest. "Listen," he began.

The table went silent.

"I'm a huntsman, killing Grimm and protecting civilians is my job. Cece's not the first child I've saved and, hopefully, she's not the last. Your kids made a tough call when they thought I was walking around with their father's sword. I appreciate the apologies. But they aren't necessary. I am really hungry though so I hope you don't mind if I put away enough for two people."

Willow smiled through watery eyes.

Jaune exhaled, situation successfully defused.

"Of course not, you can have Alana's."

Well, he tried.

"Hey!" complained Alana. "At least I was planning to apologize before you guys told me too! Sage was ready to blame this entire thing on John!"

"That's true," Willow's head tilted. Her eyes locked on to Sage like heat-seeking missiles.

Even Sage the Unflappable looked nervous under her mother's gaze.

Of course, she did. Arguing with their mother… who did she think she was? Ellie the Unconquerable?

Jaune cleared his throat again, not sure why he felt so nervous as he performed the action. He'd killed a Death Stalker with a Goliath Tusk. How could he fear his five-foot-five mother? Willow's glare whipped towards him, softened, but still present. "You all seem like a lovely family," he started, resisting the urge to study his hands as he spoke. "I hate to see you all dividing over me. Maybe it'd be for the best if I just le—"

Mathias stopped him mid thought. "I apologize. This is turning into a side-show when all Willow and I intended was to have our errant children apologize." Mathias turned to the rest of his large family. "Let's eat, and provide our guest with some pleasant conversation." He turned to his wife. "We can get back to punishments afterwards."

Willow's expression slackened and her body relaxed. "Right. Why, don't we go around the table and introduce ourselves and then bless the food? Whose turn, is it?"

"Mine," said young Jaune.

"Okay, so we'll start with Aren and go from there."

Jaune was only half listening as his sisters introduced themselves. It was good that they were doing this. That way he could avoid the confusion of accidentally using their names when he should not have known. Still, it was terribly dull, learning the names, ages, and "fun-facts" of a group of people he already had intimate knowledge of.

When it was his turn he introduced himself by first name only, telling them his real age, and making up the fun-fact that he held the world-record for spinning a sword on his nose.

Sage fact checked him via the power of the internet. Jaune had forgotten that existed. Most digital infrastructure had been down a few years into the war. The military systems were still running—but the consumer stuff was all shutdown. Jaune recalled his record with a belabored moan, declaring that he might have exaggerated his story, and that his record was more of a local title.

His next three sisters introduced themselves with no small amount of chagrin.

Young Jaune's intro provided Jaune a short glimpse into the mind of his seventeen-year-old self—in other words, it was painful.

Once he had finished the boy had clasped his hands and bowed his head.

Jaune looked around the table. All his siblings had closed their eyes and folded their hands, as had his parents. Jaune adopted their posture. It felt strange and unnatural.

It had been a while since Jaune had prayed for a meal. Years even. The admission would have horrified his mother.

But Jaune's abandonment of his religious roots wasn't an active decision. Beacon hadn't spent much time on scripture—none, actually. Nor were any of his classmates' religious. So, he'd been away from it all in school. And after school, once Beacon fell, and the war began in earnest…

Well…

The Church had been big among civvies—it gave them hope. It wasn't near as important too hunters though.

Fearing the Grimm might have led the people to cry out for god.

But fighting the Grimm only made Jaune more certain of the fact that there was none.

At least not anymore.

Maybe he was dead.

Maybe he was on Salem's side.

Huh.

Now _that_ would explain a lot.

Young Jaune spoke, "Dear Oum, please bless the food laid out before us. Please purify it and us. May the cycle of seasons repeat. Amen."

Jaune vaguely remembered his mother teaching him that prayer, word for word. How old had he been? Five or six?

Probably seven, he could recall it after all.

When teen-Jaune finished blessing their meal Willow looked to her eldest daughter. "Will you serve our guest please Alana?"

"Yes ma'am," replied Alana, clearly aware of the thin ice on which she strode.

Jaune sipped the cup of cold water before him.

"So, John…" The matriarch turned her attention towards Jaune.

Jaune met her eyes, continuing to nurse his beverage.

"Any chance your last name is Arc?"

Jaune cursed internally as he choked on his water.

Oumdamnit.

This was the kind of thing that used to happen to him and Ruby when they were clumsy awkward teenagers. It was all tripping, spit takes, and accidental self-mutilation. Now he was a man and a warrior. So why was he drowning over dinner? A few heaving coughs into his hand manage to free Jaune of the water he had, somehow, managed to inhale. After a few more gasps he said, "Excuse me?"

"I think what my wife is saying," said Mathias, "is that you fit in at the table."

Of course he did, golden hair, blue eyes, the nose thing that, according to Aren, was the bane of the Arc family. The Arc's had some pretty distinctive traits and Jaune had all of them in spades.

"He looks like Jaune," chimed Crystal, as she passed a plate stacked with rolls down the table.

Willow and Mathias both looked at him a little closer.

Jaune met their stares unflinchingly, if only because his younger self would have glanced away. Displaying Jaune's mannerisms on top of looking like him would have been too much.

"Wow," said Mathias, "you really do look like Jaune."

"Well," began Jaune, "I'm not an Arc, but I do come from a family of blondes. We all look like this. That said," Jaune shifted the attention of himself, "you two look like you could be siblings yourselves."

Mathias and Willow shared an amused glance, obviously accustomed to that comment.

"We aren't related," said Mathias, "I had to do some research before I married her—just to make sure."

"What would you have done if it turned out you were cousins?" asked Jaune, chuckling.

The awkward silence that followed reminded Jaune that his mother had already been pregnant with Alana before her wedding. Mathias and Willow exchanged a slightly confused glance, as if questioning what they would have done had they turned out to be—pregnant—cousins.

"You all clearly have good genes," said Jaune lamely.

Oum. Why was this so difficult? Tie him to a chair for interrogation and he had all kinds of clever repertoire. Sit him down at a family dinner and all he had in his bag of tricks was incest and DNA compliments.

Ellie, perhaps out of pity, redirected the entire conversation. "You are a huntsman John, right?"

"Yes," said Jaune, latching onto the lifeline.

"What brings you to Fern?"

Finally. Something he was good at.

Lying about his mission.

Alana passed him a plate loaded with meat, carbs, and a paltry serving of vegetables. Smart girl. Without Wiess here he was going to eat exactly what he wanted, there was no one to force food into him claiming the importance of "vitamins" and "nutrients."

"Alana, you aren't fixing Jaune a plate. John is an adult, more greens."

Jaune watched his perfectly proportioned meal disappear down the table. His mother gave him an apologetic smile, as if she expected him to be outraged by the lack of vegetables. Jaune sighed and returned her smile. That was his mother, mom to everyone, even random men she had just met.

"I actually didn't know this place was here," said Jaune turning to Ellie. "I got lost. I'm on my way home from a long-term mission."

"Oh!" said Crystal. "Long missions, the mark of a real huntsman! How long?"

Jaune pretended to be counting as he considered the number he was about to make up. "You all are the first people I've talked to in almost two years."

"Two years!?" exclaimed Cece from across the table.

"Yep," said Jaune, "that reminds me, what's the date?"

"You don't even know the date?" asked Crystal.

Jaune shrugged. "Not like the date matters much in the Grimmlands."

"You were in the Grimmlands!?" cried teen Jaune from his end of the table.

Jaune accepted back his plate, now piled high with spinach and green beans.

Swell.

Well, it was just fuel.

Jaune waited for the rest of his family to serve their plates.

Mathias noticed his inaction. "I thought you were hungry."

"My mother would have my head if I started eating before the people who invited me into their home."

"You mean abducted into their home," said Aren smirking at Alana and Crystal.

Willow cut off the argument before it began. "Your mother sounds like a very smart woman."

"She w—is," replied Jaune. Which tense was he supposed to use? His mother was alive here. But he'd also seen her skeleton in the basement.

"What did you eat in the Grimmlands?" questioned Mathias.

Jaune thought quickly. What was in the Grimmlands aside from Grimm, cracked soil, and noxious fumes? "Well, the Grimmlands only have Grimm, snakes, and lizards. And Grimm aren't—"

"—edible," finished Mathias.

Jaune watched his siblings' reaction across the table. Ellie fixed him with a neutral stare. Mist's was…well…she was Mist, inscrutable as ever. Cece and Aren, though, there was an open mixture of disgust and shock on their faces. More disgust on Aren's. More shock on Cece's.

"You ate snakes!?" roared Cece. The thought of eating a snake obviously left a greater impression on the girl than his two years in the Grimmlands.

"And other reptiles too," said Jaune with faux defensiveness.

"That's horrible," said Aren.

"It's not great," agreed Jaune. "But once you get around the fact that the meat is as chewy as gum and tastes like sand then it isn't all that bad."

"Did you ever eat them live?" asked Sage, peering around her sisters.

"Live?" repeated Jaune. "You mean raw? If I was in a rush and it was one of the smaller ones I'd bite off the head. Spit that out and you've got the rest of the body to eat." Jaune was in his element here. Sure, he was lying about having spent the last two years in the Grimmlands. But he had spent quite a bit of time out there during the war. He knew all about eating lizards for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Jaune noticed his mom's pallor. Right, this kind of thing was one of the few topics that would fluster the firm woman. Jaune wondered how he could redirect the conversation. His father saved him the effort.

"None of us will mind you starting before us," said Mathias, "in fact—we even promise not to tell your mother."

Jaune wanted to insist…but he was hungry. Sure, he was used to dealing with hunger, in fact, he hardly even noticed it when he was focused on something else, but there didn't seem to be much point in struggling.

He picked up his fork. "If you insist."

Oum. The food was good. No, it was incredible.

Jaune thought he'd gotten over the joy of a good meal. He thought he had entered some kind penultimate warrior state—a state in which food was nothing more than a necessity.

God, was he wrong. The meal was bliss.

"May twenty-fifth," said Ellie suddenly, looking at him curiously.

"Mmm?" replied Jaune, from behind a mouth full of food.

"You asked the date. It is May twenty-fifth."

Jaune swallowed. "Thanks."

May twenty-fifth.

That wasn't bad.

It wasn't great.

But it wasn't bad either.

He'd been worried that summer had already begun, especially since all his sisters were home from school. But May twenty-fifth was early. School had only ended in the last day or two.

Finding Amber before Cinder still wouldn't be easy…but he had some time. He wasn't sure how much. Hopefully more than a few days. She was definitely still alive and well at this point. Getting to her would be a challenge-especially without Ruby or Weiss's mobility though. There were too many of those little settlements to investigate for one huntsman of slightly above average speed.

He didn't talk much while he ate. He enjoyed listening though. It took a few minutes and a full plate but, eventually, his siblings spoke to each other as they usually did. His younger self and Ellie bantered with each other from across the table. Mist hummed to herself, occasionally looking up at Jaune. Cece broke into everyone else's conversations at will. Sage was giving Aren advice on some problem at school—but using a robust social theory—rather than practical experience. Still, the advice wasn't all that bad. Crystal and Alana kept nudging each other, whispering and glancing at Jaune. At first Jaune thought it was about his ravenous appetite and hurried eating. But when he slowed down and actually _chewed_ his food they continued.

Whatever.

"So," began Mathias when Jaune's plate was just about empty—even of vegetables. The man checked the rest of his family, probably to make sure they were suitably distracted. Willow had excused herself a moment earlier to fetch dessert. "Two years in the Grimmlands?"

Jaune nodded.

"By yourself?"

Jaune nodded again.

"That's not a normal huntsman mission."

"You're telling me," said Jaune.

"Sounds like the kind of thing Ozpin asks his people to do."

Jaune froze, his hand a few inches away from his cup. "That's…true," said Jaune.

Interesting.

Ozpin had never spoken much of Mathias Arc—but Jaune knew the two were familiar. Mathias had attended Beacon after all. Mathias was too dedicated to his family to get involved in Ozpin's secret war. Jaune knew that. But that didn't mean the man wasn't privy to some details.

Mathias's voice dropped. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Find what he was looking for?

Huh.

Salem.

He knew about her. Perhaps he did not know her name. Or what she represented. Or what she could do.

But he knew of "The Queen."

So, his father wasn't a piece in Ozpin's game but, rather, a spectator.

Jaune leaned in towards the man conspiratorially. "I wouldn't have come back if I hadn't."

Jaune continued to…stretch… the truth. He wasn't certain where Salem laid her head _exactly_ —not right now. He knew where she'd be in the future. But that was some years from this point. That said, he had an idea…or, rather, Weiss had given him some ideas. She had mapped out the four most likely positions for Salem's fortress. Two of which looked promising.

"You shouldn't say that," said Mathias. "Coming back is important."

"I can see why it would be to you," said Jaune, motioning to Mathias's children. "I'm jealous."

Mathias surveys his family. "Any plans to start your own?"

"I'd have to find the right girl for that." Jaune thought of every girl he'd ever known, that he'd ever loved…every girl who could have, possibly, been the right girl. Then he thought of their corpse—or whatever else had been left of them to bury. "I don't really spend enough time in any one place."

Jaune became aware that the two sisters on his immediate left, Crystal and Alana, had ceased their conversation. Were they listening?

"Mmm…I sometimes wonder what my life would be like if I hadn't met Willow while I was still in school." Mathias rocked back in his chair, looking towards the ceiling. "I'd probably be deep in Ozpin's shit…" Mathias cracked a grin. "Or dead. Probably dead. Especially if roughing it in the Grimmlands for more than a year is a normal part of the job."

Jaune laughed. "It's a…perk of being too good at what I do."

"Yeah, I can imagine. You must have trained like crazy to lone the Grimmlands. I've seen guys like you before…"

Jaune doubted his father had ever encountered a huntsman of his caliber—certainly not several of them—but Jaune didn't want to come off as a prick by voicing that thought. So, he allowed Mathias to continue without interruption.

"You should take a few months off, try and relax for a while."

"I think that would be physically painful for me."

"Maybe, at first. Maybe the whole time." Mathias shrugged. "You should still do it. Guys like you normally take the retirement by Grimm option. They think they just weren't born for love and family and the slow life of an _average_ huntsman. But how can you be certain you weren't born for it if you never tap the brakes long enough to check it out? You can always say 'nah, I tried it, not for me' and get back to biting off lizard heads."

"That is the part I miss the most…" said Jaune.

"Who wouldn't?" Mathias responded. "Still, I hate to see young people throwing their lives away in a battle that has plagued humanity for millennia."

He had a point there.

Some huntsman took the job thinking they would be _The One_.

The one to end the Grimm threat and to unite the four kingdoms under the one world banner, Remnant.

The truth of the matter was, of course, no matter a huntsman's effort or sacrifice, the war against Grimm and darkness itself would continue long after. Three Grimm would spring up for every Grimm he killed. Salem would continue, an immortal monster. As would Ozpin, because he was…some sort of… eternal…soul hopping parasite?

Whatever, the point was there were so many huntsmen who had thrown their life, heart, and soul into the battle against Grimm—and they had never brought it any closer to its end.

Mathias was sick of seeing that.

Jaune was probably infinitely more sick of it than his father.

He had, after all, lived through a war that had left humanity a smoldering husk of its former self.

"I'm not saying you should give up on being a hero," said Mathias. "Just…remember. It's not selfish to _occasionally_ think of yourself."

That was…interesting advice.

It didn't apply to him though.

It couldn't.

There were too many dead friends at his back.

They begged him to avenge them. Egged him to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Then there was Ruby and Weiss, Oum knew where they were…

But he'd save them, just like he'd save everyone else when he changed this world for the better.

Realizing he had been pondering in silence for several seconds Jaune spoke, "I'll keep that in mind."

Mathias smiled. "Just don't get too use to thinking of yourself. Cause once you find the _right_ girl and start that family you'll be right back to spending every spare second on other people."

Jaune smiled.

Yeah, that wasn't for him. But it was a nice thought.

"You know," began a voice to his left.

Jaune turned towards his eldest sister.

"Fern is awful nice. Maybe you should just stay here a while."

"A tantalizing offer from the girl who kidnapped me," said Jaune.

"There are other girls in Fern," said Alana hastily. "Girls who wouldn't kidnap you."

"She's right," added Crystal. "We could hook you up with a nice weak woman. No aura…no ability to resist…submissive, everything you could possibly want."

"I _definitely_ didn't say I wanted any of that."

"So, you want a huntress? A girl who can stand up to you?" asked Crystal.

"She doesn't have to be a hunt—" began Jaune.

Crystal interrupted him, "that'll limit your options but that's fine. There are still plenty of strong girls around here."

"Actually," said Sage, suddenly engaged when she heard a statement that needed to be fact-checked. "We three make up thirty-seven-point-five percent of the aura-unlocked girls in Fern—if you limit the query's scope to women within an appropriate age range for Jaune."

Jaune leaned forward, peering at Sage from around his two other older sisters. "I hope you aren't including teenagers in that age range."

"Eighteen," Sage pointed to herself, "to twenty-one," she pointed at Alana.

Jaune's eyebrow twitched. "I'm twenty-eight."

It was at this moment that the rest of the Arc children stopped chatting amongst themselves—as if their hive mind had commanded them to tune in for Sage's retort.

"But you're the type who likes 'em young right?"

Every eye on the table swiveled towards him. Even Mathias.

In the past, Jaune would have flopped under the pressure. He would have helped Sage dig his own grave. Now though, now…

"W-what are you saying!?"

Ah. Just as he intended.

Incoherent sputtering.

Not unlike a virgin being propositioned for the first time.

Damn his family. Damn them to hell.

Sage interpreted his stammering outrage as a deliberate question. "Well I've taken a recent interest in the softer sciences these days. Sociology, psychology—that kind of thing. They aren't as adept at explaining the universe as _real_ science but they're a damn sight better than real science at explaining people. Have you ever tried applying string theory to school interactions?"

"Why would y—" began Jaune.

Sage interrupted him with an obnoxious laugh. "Anyway, people who have been through terrible events, who have seen terrible things, who have taken terrible injuries…" She motioned to his large scar. "Subconsciously they begin to long for the innocence they've lost. What better way to get that innocence than a twenty-one-year old virgin?" Sage motioned towards Alana.

Jaune stared at his elder sister—incapable of finding the words that could properly express how uncomfortable he felt.

The girl began to turn red under his gaze.

Nope.

Nope.

Jaune looked to his father for salvation. He found only a dagger-tip gaze, boring into him as if looks really could kill.

It was at that moment Willow returned, a large cake in her hands. Jaune recognized it as he and his father's favorite. A pound cake covered in a delicious lemon glaze. God, it had been years since he'd tasted that masterpiece. If he wasn't already _so_ uncomfortable he would probably have been ecstatic. "Sorry for the wait, I had to frost the…"

She trailed off when she took in the scene.

Jaune took a quick look-around—just to know exactly what she was seeing. Crystal was snickering and offered Sage a high-five. Alana's face was red as Ruby's cape, and Matthias stared at Jaune with the vehemence of a Beowolf.

"Did I miss something?" asked their mother.

"Only the best thing ever," replied Crystal, "Sage was just using psychology to tell us why Alana and John would be _perfect_ for each other. Like, wedding-bells perfect."

"That's not exactly what I said," corrected Sage, "they don't need to get married for John to suck the innocence out of her like a vampire."

This was normally where Alana would tell her younger sisters to shut up. Today she just decided to get redder.

Great.

 ** _"Like hell they don't."_** Mathias words were more a feral growl than they were a human voice.

Jaune inched away from the man. He didn't realize that meant he was inching towards Alana until his father hooked his foot under the lip of Jaune's chair and dragged him a foot closer.

"Hey, Sage." It was Ellie's voice. Finally, sanity.

"I'd be interested to hear your take on John's compatibility with Crystal as well. Her constant deflection with humor has to be a barrier for something soft—is it innocence?"

Crystal's laughter died immediately. She'd forgotten that Sage's only true allegiance was to knowledge and her fellow intellectuals—like Ellie.

And occasionally Aren too—for some reason. Possibly because she was the family stylist.

"Excellent question Ellie. I've put a lot of time and thought into Crystal's obsession with being funny. I think it stems from a desire for attention. She's never had the responsibilities and purpose of the eldest child and her birth was eclipsed by the rapid succession of siblings that followed her, I, Jaune, you… Subconsciously—and probably consciously at some point—she's always desired more attention from mom and dad—but, if the main target of her teasing is any indication, mostly from Alana."

"That's not true!" cried Crystal

"An apt assessment." Ellie decreed. "What of her compatibility with John?"

Young Jaune piped up. "Ellie, don't you think you've embarrassed her enough?"

"Jaune, they tied a stranger to a chair, interrogated him, gave the lamest of apologies, and as a result of their stupidity they _broke your nose._ "

Jaune couldn't help but notice the girl sounded a _lot_ more pissed about that last part.

"Sage." Ellie returned her attention to her sister.

"It'd be interesting. Crystal clearly wants a man who will coddle her…"

Except for Alana, who was still very much out of it, every girl at the table nodded, even Willow.

"I do not!" cried Crystal.

"She wants to be the center of his attention—which may not work well with someone with so much detachment. But at the same time…she really wants that white knight prince messiah type too. So, his strength might make up for his inability to connect."

Sage leaned back looking at Jaune from behind her sisters, as if she was doing all of this for him. "Alana's the safer bet John. She's less needy and, if I were a betting woman, I'd say there's a bit more innocence for you to…appreciate there too."

 ** _"Now, what does that mean?"_**

Jaune winced. Mathias was clearly angry at Sage's implication…

So why was he still staring at him? Was he just the nearest non-biologically-related male to hate?

"Sage was just saying Crystal has the dirtiest mind of us all, right?" Ellie was quick on the damage control.

Sage, despite her blockheaded insensitivity, replied, "right."

" ** _Just a dirty mind…huh."_**

Jaune looked to his last remaining bastion of sanity. Mom. Willow was a no-nonsense kind of woman, right? She'd end this…right?

Willow set down the cake to the right of her husband. She took her seat and, in an unusual display of uncouthness, placed her elbows on the table. She rested one hand atop the other and her chin atop that. Her eyes were deadly serious, her brows drawn together in a focused frown. Here it came. She was going to tell off her entire family. And this time, Jaune got to play the role of the stranger in front of whom her family had embarrassed her—it would be a blissful reversal of roles.

"You and Alana hm?"

Well. That was an odd start to the lecture. But, still, it was coming. Jaune surveyed the table, a counsel of his mother's future victims.

Huh, Ellie had her hands positioned around Cece's ears. Cece attempted to shrug her older sister off, but the girl's injuries rendered her efforts futile. It was odd that Ellie felt the need to keep Cece from listening.

Mom's lectures were for everyone, even the baby of the family.

Willow turned to Alana. "You could certainly do worse." She looked Jaune up and down again. "Actually, it'd be pretty difficult to do better."

Mathias squinted at his wife, clearing his throat.

He went ignored.

Jaune tried to fight off his mounting confusion.

Was this the point from which she would spring into her angry tirade? It had to be, right?

Willow turned back to Jaune. "You like children John?"

"Well—" began Jaune.

His mother cut him off. "Sorry, dumb question, Cece isn't your little girl but you still took off like a banshee to save her."

That was what any huntsman would do. Plus, she was also his little sister. He couldn't share the latter but he could at least reinforce the former.

Before he had the chance to speak Willow continued.

"Unfortunately, you hero types, are always a flight risk. I know Matt sure was. There's always someone, somewhere that needs saving."

She looked at Alana. "Fortunately, you can tie him down with responsibility…"

Jaune blanched. Tie him down with responsibility? How, exactly did a woman go about tying a guy down with responsibility. He glanced around the table, at Mathias's eight children.

Huh.

Oh.

 _Oh!_

"Based off the mess downstairs," continued Willow. "I'd suggest a sturdier chair and polishing your knots."

"W-what?" Alana stuttered.

"Well dear, you might need to tie him down literally before you've got him for sure. You never know what might set off a flight risk. And there's no telling how long the permanent capture process will take."

Jaune and Mathias exchanged a look. The message was clear, quick and silent, but passionate nonetheless.

 _Holy shit._

 _Holy shit._

 ** _Holy shit._**

 **###**

"Thanks," said Jaune, accepting his sword from Mathias's outstretched hand. He slid it into his belt. He missed his sheath-shield combo already. He was, however, happy to be back in his own clothes. Washed and dried, his hoody had not felt or smelled this good in years.

Ellie had even been so kind as to sew his journal back into the lining. Well, Alana was the one who had offered. But Ellie was the one who had undone and repaired the initial mess.

The only armor he wore these days, a pair of vambraces, looked shinier than they had when they were new.

"Returning the sword my daughters stole from you hardly seems worth the 'thank you' does it?"

Jaune grinned. "They did what they thought they had too. But, let's just say I was thanking you for dinner."

Mathias exhaled roughly, running his hand through his golden hair. "Right, that train wreck. It was the least we could do. And I mean that literally as well as figuratively."

Jaune laughed. It wasn't the full body kind of laugh that Ruby could occasionally elicit from him but the amusement was genuine. "Come on Mathias," began Jaune, despite how weird it felt to call him by his first name, "I get it from the rest of your family. But we're huntsmen. Saving daughters, brothers, mothers, lovers…it's what we do."

"You ran, from my house, across Fern, and jumped the wall. In what, two minutes?"

Jaune shrugged.

"Then you protected Cece from a swarm of Beowolves."

"That wasn't me d-Mathias."

"Fine," said Mathias, "maybe it was your alter ego. Whatever. It was your hand that protected her. Cece saw it all. And I realize two dozen Beowolves may not be a big deal to someone who vacations in the Grimmlands. But you don't need to act so humble. Sure, most huntsmen will protect a random civilian in front of them. But that's not what you did. You went above and beyond. That little girl is my responsibility to protect and I wasn't there when she needed me. And you protected her in my stead. I will forever be in your debt."

That story was so patently wrong, Jaune wasn't sure where to start in correcting it.

Alter ego. Two dozen Beowolves. Vacationing in the Grimmlands. Humble. Random civilian. The idea that Cece wasn't just as much his responsibility to protect as she was Mathias's…

In the end, Jaune realized there was no point trying to go into any of it.

Someone had certainly killed some Grimm in that clearing, probably four or five dozen by the looks of it. But it wasn't him. He'd only protected Cece from one measly Grimm.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay the night? I'd be happy to put you up at the local inn."

"Sorry, my news for Ozpin is critical."

"We could call him."

"Has to be delivered in person."

"I can make sure there's a bullhead waiting for you at the airbase. They'll take you straight into Vale."

"I need to make a stop in the micro-settlements to the south. Probably aren't many flights heading in that direction."

"That's true…" said Mathias, clearly still looking for some-way to repay Jaune.

Jaune knelt and began doing up his boots. "You really want to pay me back Mathias?"

"Clearly."

"How about this, will you take some unsolicited advice that is absolutely none of my business and you really shouldn't have to listen to?"

"Sure," said Mathias.

Jaune straightened. "And, also, if you have any spare Lien that would be great. I used what I brought with me two years ago to start a fire."

Mathias's face lit up as he fished out his wallet.

Jaune waited until his father had handed him three twenties and a five before continuing. "Your son, Jaune. He told me you all don't want him to become a huntsman. That he's too old to start training."

"You disagree?" asked Mathias sharply.

"No. I don't disagree. But you still need to train him. And seriously too."

Mathias snorted. "Why?"

"Because he's got the hero bug. If I hadn't been here. He would have gone after Cece himself. He may not ever be a great fighter. And he may get himself killed trying to be a huntsman. But that kid's gonna throw himself in front of an Ursa for somebody eventually. Could be his sisters. Could be old man across the street. He'll die instantly if you haven't unlocked his aura and taught him how to use a sword by then."

Mathias's eyes were wide.

Jaune continued. "Like I said, none of my business. But I couldn't see that and say nothing."

"I…" Mathias trailed off. After a moment of indecision, he stuck out a hand. For a moment Jaune thought he was asking for his money back. Then he realized he was looking for a handshake.

Jaune obliged.

"I'll have to think about that John. But…" His brow furrowed. "Well…that's some really sound advice. You sure you're only twenty-eight?"

"Pretty sure." Jaune noticed a flicker of movement from the edge of his vision. He turned. Drapes rustled, faces hid. The rest of his family was watching his departure from his windows.

He struggled not to smile. Their behavior was odd, inappropriate, and downright difficult to understand.

But it was evidence that they were alive.

He thought back to those skeletons in the basement.

Jaune lowered his voice, although the rest of the Arcs were behind a closed door and there was no one else in their vicinity. "One more thing Mathias, and you need to keep this quiet. You know how panic works in these sorts of situations. Attracts Grimm, turns into a disaster that kills everyone before the real disaster even gets the chance."

Mathias instinctively drew a little closer, drawn in by his sudden drop in volume. "If I were you. I'd pack my family up and move into Vale. Soon."

Mathias went rigid. His ice blue eyes flickered. "Why?"

"Something is happening in the Grimmlands. I'm not sure what, but I'm going to work with Ozpin to fortify Vale. We'll also try to gradually pullback settlers into the city. But we can't just announce a full-scale evacuation. The doubt, worry, and negativity would attract the Grimm in mass. Plus…"

"There's not enough room in Vale for all the outlying villages to return," finished Mathias.

"You don't need to move tomorrow. Or a week from now. Or even a month from now. Just…do it before they start tuning people away."

"Vale…" Mathias drifted off. "I've always hated the city."

That was his father. He liked the fresh air, the trees, the ability to see the stars.

Jaune wasn't much different. He took the wooden steps, leading off the terrace one at a time. He spared a second to observe his mother's garden. Beautifully maintained. Recently watered. Glistening in the evening dusk. As it should be.

"Hey," he called over his shoulder. "At least you'll be close to Jaune when you enroll him in Beacon."

"Beacon?" said Mathias, face twisting. "You expect me to trust Ozpin with my son John?"

"Glynda, Mathias. Trust Glynda with the children. Ozpin…well… _permit_ Ozpin with the children. Trust Glynda. Permit Ozpin."

"What if I don't want to trust _or_ permit him?"

Jaune called over his shoulder, "I know, at first glance, Ozpin seems like a lunatic wielding a dangerous obsession over defeating an invisible foe and way too much money, power, and time to throw at her. But if you ignore his questionable examination methods, heavy use of child soldiers, inability to trust, willingness to bend the law, and overall perspective on life as a game…If you take all of that away…"

Jaune continued walking, wondering how he could possibly end that sentence.

"Well, at least Glynda's there."

###

After leaving the Arc household Jaune had some immediate concerns on which to focus.

Those concerns were a godsend.

Because he was terrified of where his mind would take him if he started thinking about the scope of what he was attempting.

Or the fact that he, appeared to be, attempting it alone.

What the hell had happened to Ruby and Weiss?

Nope, no good.

Those were the thoughts he couldn't afford to get distracted by. Not when Amber might have only a week left

So, instead, he concentrated on a local store owner, Paul, who answered his door wearing a night cap, to walk the four blocks to his small supply shop so Jaune could purchase some much-needed gear. The store-owner hadn't been too unwilling. Rumors had already circulated around the settlement about the scarred man who had risked life and limb to save one of Fern's children. Throwing around Mathias's name helped as well.

Jaune offered Paul all sixty-five Lien he had received from Mathias, explained that this was all he had, and asked whether it would be enough to get him a waterproof bag, a map, some rope, a flashlight, some batteries, a few pencils, water, and some protein bars.

Jaune knew it wouldn't be. He was hoping for some generosity.

In the original timeline, when it had come to the defense of settlements like these, Jaune was accustomed to telling business owners and town officials exactly what he and his team needed and receiving it as soon as possible. There had been no exchange of currency—no discussion of payment.

During a time of war, a huntsman's word was king.

Peace, Jaune suspected, would be a little different.

As it turned out, Paul had a daughter, Jenny—the same girl who had taught Cece to flip off people who irritated her. Cece spent a lot of time at his house and Jenny at the Arcs, so he was willing to knock off the one-hundred-sixty additional Lien Jaune should have owed him.

Once he had taken care of that, bidding Paul a goodnight, Jaune spent a few minutes plotting his course.

Thankfully, Paul had given him the good map. The pamphlet unfolded into several different sheets. Each with the same basic shape of Remnant, but some different schemes. One was a regular map, another focused upon topography, the other was color coded to correspond with degrees of settlement, a fourth displayed common trade routes, and the fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth focused on each of the kingdoms.

Jaune looked up at the nearly set sun. And then down at his map. This was the sort of thing he usually left to Weiss—but he knew enough to get going in the right direction.

He had to be careful though.

He needed to head north-east, but not true north-east. He'd lose valuable time if he didn't calculate the angle of deviation from North, and plot a course he could maintain using the North Star as his compass. He drew a line from his current position to the area where the villages existed. Then he drew a second line, parallel to true north. He then attached the two lines, forming a right triangle. He then used the map scale tool to measure the length of each of his lines in miles.

Then it was time for his least favorite part.

The math.

He checked his work three times.

It looked good.

Hopefully it was good.

He headed for Fern's northern exit.

It didn't take Jaune long to get lost in his thoughts once he had exited Fern. Sure, he had to keep an eye on the North star—but without much else around to distract him, that proved an inadequate task to suppress the rush of doubt, worry, and raw fear that flooded his system. Things got a little more challenging once he was in the forest—since he couldn't always see the stars through the thick canopy above. But if he got his bearings at every clearing it wasn't bad. And each rest left him a little more wiggle-room to bask in his negative thoughts.

Most of those thoughts concerned Ruby and Weiss.

Should he assume they came through the portal? Should he look for them? Should he assume they had been captured?

Oum, he wished his friends were here.

He needed them. The plan needed them.

This was one of several times when the plan had called for them to split. He would check villages by himself. Weiss and Ruby would check other…villages…together…

Why did that bother him so much? Him checking villages alone, while Weiss and Ruby did so together…It was Weiss's suggestion—and he'd been fine with it at the time she made it. Weiss and Ruby were a couple, plus their semblances complimented one another like a sword and sheath. It wasn't unusual that, if they had to split in two, Weiss and Ruby would stay together and Jaune would go at it alone.

That wasn't what was bothering him. Not the face that they'd be together and he'd be alone. How could a trivial detail like that warrant his concern? He'd never been bothered by that arrangement in the past when they had split.

No, something else bothered him about the arrangement.

Jaune had traversed at least six miles before it occurred to him what bothered him so much about the plan.

Efficiency.

Weiss practically worshiped it.

So why would she recommend that their party split into a group of two when, individually, they could each easily take on Cinder?—with Qrow's added assistance the fight would be a cake walk.

So why wasn't the plan to split in three?

They didn't know which village Amber was traveling from when attacked—so covering ground quickly was mission-critical.

Come to think of it…

Jaune's mind raced through their entire complex scheme to save Remnant, not quite in order—but he remembered the segments. None of it involved them splitting into three separate parties. Ever

And Weiss had devised ninety percent of it.

Jaune thought back to their brainstorming sessions. There was a point at which Ruby had suggested splitting into three. Weiss had vetoed the recommendation, citing some complicated and complex reason.

A reason, Jaune realized, that was total B.S.

Jaune stopped. His feet refused to take another step. His stomach gnawed on itself. His jaw wavered despite his attempt to clench it

This was a two-person plan. It always had been.

Suddenly Weiss's constant drilling made sense. She wanted to make sure Ruby and he knew the plan…

Because they were the only two who were returning to the past.

Weiss wasn't.

She couldn't.

Jaune felt the book in his jacket. Weiss had given this to him, not to hold on to for her.

But as the only remnant of her to be brought back to the past.

Jaune remembered the conversation he and Weiss had the morning of the jump. She had never finished.

But Jaune knew what she was going to say.

 _"So you are willing to die to stop Salem," summed Weiss._

 _"Of course, aren't you?"_

 _Weiss set down her mug, fixing Jaune with a calculating gaze. She steeped her fingers, resting her chin on her fingertips. "No. There are only two things in this world I am willing to die f–"_

Jaune Arc and Ruby Rose.

Those were the two things Weiss Schnee would die for.

And Ruby—torn between her love for Weiss and her duty as a hero…

For her, there was only one possible solution.

Toss Jaune through the portal, trusting him to bear the weight of the hopes, dreams, and efforts of all humanity on his shoulders alone.

And stand beside the woman she loved. The last two huntresses, engulfed by an ocean of Grimm.

Jaune dropped to his knees.

Odd.

He didn't know he had any tears left for fallen friends.

 **###**

Jaune awoke to a Beowolf's jaws clenched around his throat. It was just beginning to shake, trying to snap his neck.

There was another on his leg.

And three more coming out of the trees.

Teeth bit into his aura, as did claws, and…was that Crocea Mors?

Huh, he must have slept in a weird position if his blade was digging into him like that.

He needed to get a sheathe as soon as possible.

Jaune grabbed his damaged weapon and, in one clean swipe, beheaded the Beowolf at his neck. The angle was awkward and he had just awoken from some very uncomfortable sleep so his shoulder popped painfully as he completed the slash.

He sat up, kicking the Beowolf on his leg in the face. Not too hard, just enough to get it to back off and lunge for his now exposed neck. He rammed Crocea Mors through its face. As his first two kills faded into dark particles Jaune stood. He brushed dirt, leaves, and a few bugs from his clothes.

The three remaining Beowolves charged.

Jaune wondered just how much he must have cried last night to have attracted Grimm this close to Fern.

He was only five or six miles, out right?

A pack of Beowolves?

What were they doing here?

Hm. It was probably the portal's fault.

Jaune returned Crocea Mors to his belt as three more Grimm corpses began to dissolve.

He didn't feel great. Crying all night tended to do that. And sleeping on the ground, sprawled out like a rag doll while wearing a full backpack didn't help much either.

But it didn't matter.

His pain didn't matter.

He needed to focus.

Last night he'd had a realization. Ruby Rose. The Ruby Rose. A hero above heroes. The girl who refused to save even one person less than _everyone_.

She had trusted him enough to stay behind.

If it had been only her and Weiss, would she have sacrificed humanity to die with her lover?

Probably not.

But she could choose Weiss—because she believed in Jaune. She believed she could leave the fate of the entire world up to him.

It was abandonment. But not the kind he could resent.

Rather, it fueled him. It added to his resolve.

He had planned to march through the night. He hadn't.

But he could make up for that time by marching nonstop for the next thirty-six hours. If he maintained a pace of about three-and-a-half miles per hour—he could cover one-hundred-plus miles, no problem.

A pace like that would get him to these villages in no time.

It would be grueling and it would push him to near exhaustion.

But was there any better way to deal with grief?

Aside from a good fight.

###

Jaune was beginning to wonder if, perhaps, he had not been thinking clearly when he enforced this pace on himself.

He staggered along the road he had finally come across. The well-traveled path made things easier than when it was all slopes and underbrush—but not that much easier.

His legs were under a blowtorch and his lungs were barely functional.

Jaune knew he wouldn't be in as much pain as he was now if he had just walked for the past twenty-eight hours. But walking would have put him at an average of two miles per hour. Three-and-a-half required jogging.

Now he wanted nothing more than to collapse where he stood and sleep away all the time he had saved.

But that couldn't happen. It wouldn't. If he could maintain this pace for another fourteen or fifteen hours he would encounter his first village. He would rest there—for a little while at least. And then he'd get right back to it.

At first, he assumed he was imagining it.

He imagined it was an auditory hallucination. But as he kept moving forward it got louder. Eventually, Jaune recognized the familiar sound.

A screaming horse. To the left of the road Jaune was traversing was a steep slope of grass and dirt. Jaune peered down it, searching for the source of the noise.

Ah. There.

A broken, battered, and overturned wagon.

And a horse with its maimed legs pinned underneath.

Well shit.

Jaune had forgotten that there were still places on Remnant where cars weren't common pieces of technology.

A part of him, a very large part of him, practically all of him, wanted to keep moving. And he definitely would not go down there if all he could see was a horse in pain. There were too many human and faunus lives on the line to worry about a horse.

But Jaune could see two human bodies thrown a few feet clear of the crash site.

They could be alive.

And all it would take is a moment to go check.

He was supposed to be the callous type of hero with bigger fish to fry.

He knew that.

But not going out of one's way to help individuals was a far cry from ignoring people in trouble directly in front of him.

WWRD.

What would Ruby do?

Jaune groaned, as did his bones, limbs, and muscles. He took the easiest way down the steep grass slope, sliding down on his butt, controlling his descent with his hands and feet. The bottom of the slope, where the wagon had come to a halt, was surprisingly level.

Jaune looked up the hill he had just climbed down. It was at least fifty feet back up.

He was regretting this already.

"Hello," he called, in between gasping breaths. "Anyone alive?" He walked around the wagon and the squealing horse. He'd have to put it out of its misery after he checked on the two…

Faunus if the ears were any indication. A father and son. One was facedown. The other rested on his side, turned away from Jaune.

Neither were moving. And looking at their mangled limbs, and twisted spines, Jaune didn't think there was much he could do to remedy that. Their bodies had been crushed by the weight of the wagon several times on its way down.

Well…

At least he could close their eyes. He bent, reaching for the father. He pulled him onto his back.

The horse behind him stopped squealing.

Jaune's eyes locked on the man's slashed throat.

Jaune whirled, drawing Crocea Mors as he spun.

His blade clashed with a crimson katana.

His first thought, when he saw his assailants white mask, was White Fang.

But a second later Jaune knew that to be false.

A dark spatial distortion opened up before her. She swiped her blade through it.

Jaune jumped as the blade slashed through where his legs had been an eighth-second earlier. The spatial tear from which the blade had appeared, behind him, vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"You're a warrior," said Raven.

Jaune could practically hear her smile behind her mask.

She lunged forward with a wild thrust. Jaune leapt back, directly into the gaping maw of a spatial distortion.

His world became nothing for a moment.

And then he was back…

Somewhere.

Jaune squinted. It was dark. Going from sunlight to darkness so quickly had done a number on his vision. He stared at the small square of light above him until his vision adjusted.

Then he looked around.

Shit.

He was in a cell. Underground probably.

He touched the bars to his right, Valesian steel, same stuff his sword was made out of. Not as pure.

But still tough as hell.

He looked around his cell, noticing he was not alone. Three others shared his cell, teenagers.

Trembling, wide-eyed, panting, sweating, pale.

They look scared out of their minds.

"Fresh meat!"

There was a roar as men screamed their approval from the adjacent cells.

A moment later a spatial tear appeared just outside of Jaune's cell. Out came Raven, mask off, shit-eating grin in place.

Jaune banged his head on his cell's metal bars as he stared into those brutal red orbs.

Goddamnit.

He hated this bitch.

 **So as, per usual I didn't have a beta so sorry.**

 **Again, let me know if you think I should change the characters listed in this story off of Whiterose so people looking for Whiterose fluff don't get this…not very fluffy and not very Whiterosey piece.**

 **Sorry to the people who were reallllllyy upset this wasn't published on the 30** **th** **.**

 **If you like this fic. You'll probably like my fic Guitar Hunstman too.**

 **It's literally, nothing alike.**

 **-Vronsurd**


	4. Of Blood, Blades, and Bars

**Hey so, I'm updating on Wednesdays now. Woot.**

 **And this isn't even Wednesday….wo…oo…tttt**

 **I got home from work and was all set to finish up this chapter and update on time. But then the author's note at the bottom…well…it got away from me. And I sort of…started to fall asleep. Like a weakling. I've never been more disappointed in myself.**

 **Also, this is going to be the last bi-weekly update of this fic. As I've said this really needs to be tri-weekly. Not because I need more time to work on it—but because my friend's pestering me to make an AU adventure story. And now I've got a pretty gnarly idea.**

 **I'll rotate my three long-chapter fics every Wednesday.**

 **So next Wednesday I'll update Guitar Huntsman.**

 **The Wednesday after that I'll post the first chapter of my new adventure fic.**

 **And "The Shield of Vale" will return the Wednesday after that.**

 **Also, I've had some questions about how "AU" this fic is…**

 **The author's note at the bottom of this fic is kind of a diatribe on Fantasy creation.**

 **The tldr is: This fic has some AU elements in it and that's unavoidable.**

 **If you'd rather just enjoy the fic without any bothersome analysis don't read it. If you're really interested in the thought process of crafting this story and a bit of my perspective on canon RWBY's narrative structure then I suggest reading it before the rest of the chapter. It's long… Just scroll till you see bold.**

 **(NO SEASON 5 SPOILERS INBOUND I SWEAR)**

 **P.S.: Yes, I am aware that this upcoming season of RWBY will reveal a lot more about the bandits and Yang's mom—and it's kind of risky to write them before it comes out. But I'll take steps to make sure at least location and culture don't step on the show's toes. I'll do this by isolating the events of this chapter to a specific, time and place—all specifically isolated from what the show will reveal in the next couple of weeks.**

Of Blood, Blades, and Bars

The noise was getting insufferable. The ground vibrated with stamping. The air shook with clanging and cheers.

Combine that near intolerable racket with the god-awful smell covering the area like a tarp—and Jaune could already feel a headache coming on.

And he'd only been here for about thirty seconds.

He wanted to spend a bit more time taking in his surroundings. But he couldn't.

He couldn't look away from Raven Branwen.

Part of it was because she was a murderous bandit. Not the sort of person one would want to take their eye off, ever, really. The other part was because he was furious. Furious at her… Furious at himself… Furious at the universe…

But mostly furious at her.

Raven met his glare with a cocky expression.

He didn't like the fact that her mask was off. She'd have kept her mask on if there was a chance of him leaving in the immediate future, like a ransom sort of situation. No, whatever her plans for him, they didn't involve him going far.

Her smirk widened when his glare intensified.

God, he wished these bars weren't between them.

After a minute of observing one another Raven gently brought a finger to her lips. The moment the digit touched her mouth there was a shout to Jaune's right. A man's deep voice.

"Quiet maggots! She's speaking!"

A few more shouts of, "quiet maggots!" reverberated through the room. And, then, only a few seconds after Raven had held up her finger, there was silence.

Jaune was impressed. He didn't want to be. But he couldn't help it. He glanced to his right, towards the cage adjacent to his own. There were men in there, men of different shapes, sizes, and constitutions. Some might have been murderers. Some might have been thieves. Some might have been terrorists or deserters.

Others might have been innocent journeymen—like himself.

Whatever they were—they certainly weren't a disciplined bunch.

The fact that Raven could put a finger on her lips, a single man could see it, and five seconds the cacophony died off as if it had never been born?

Those were some terrifying intimidation skills. What must she have done to—or in front of them for her to be able to summon such abject silence on a whim?

Raven didn't just keep her prisoners in cells; she kept them on leashes.

Jaune decided to speak first—if only because she might not expect him to. "What in that cart was so valuable that you had to kill a couple of civvies?"

Raven was silent for a moment.

If Jaune remembered her personality correctly, she was probably deciding whether he looked strong enough to even be worthy of a conversation with her.

Should he have found the fact that she responded the tiniest bit flattering?

"Honestly, I just happened to be in the area," began Raven.

Her voice was just as cold as he remembered it the first time he spoke to her, a few hours after Yang's funeral—when she finally showed up.

The woman continued, "I saw them passing by so I decided to look at their cargo…"

"That when you slit their throats?"

" _I_ didn't slit their throats," replied Raven.

"You didn't?" asked Jaune, surprised. She was probably lying. But why?

"Not until the boy attacked me."

"He…attacked you?" repeated Jaune, openly displaying the depth of his incredulity.

"Pulled a gun and everything. Once I was staring down the barrel of a gun. I just… acted. You know how it is when the adrenaline kicks in."

"Was this fifty-caliber sniper rifle with max-penetration rounds?" asked Jaune, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"No, just a normal pistol."

"A weapon that couldn't possibly harm you."

"That's probably true, but you know how these things go…" Raven's smirk began to transform into a smile. "Instinct. I had to defend myself."

"Funny." Jaune thought back to the crash, and his initial inspection of the site. "I didn't see a gun."

"Maybe the gun never made it out of its holster," said Raven, her infuriating smile widening. "I am pretty quick on the draw."

Oum.

He hated this woman so much. What was the point of being so goddamn strong if you weren't going to take on opponents that were worthy of that strength? Why would she spit on the time, effort, and energy that goes into becoming strong—by wasting that strength on the weak—much less the innocent?

Not to mention—strength or no strength—why murder at all? Was she sick, like Cinder?

Did she enjoy the kill?

No. She probably didn't "enjoy" the kill.

After all, Jaune believed her story. She would've let those two men live if they hadn't resisted.

But he also believed she had killed them the moment they twitched towards—what looked as if it could have been—resistance.

They received no warning. They received no quarter.

As for what she felt during and after the murder…?

Nothing.

She probably felt nothing over the kill. Aside from the gratification of reconfirming her sword mastery and killing techniques.

"Speaking of swords," resumed Raven.

Jaune refocused his mind on the woman standing before him.

"I'm going to need yours."

Jaune glanced at her outstretched hand and then her eyes. She looked serious. Serious as all hell. Surely, she didn't expect with him to part with his weapon without a fight—without some kind of struggle.

"You think I'm just going to give it to you?"

Blue warred with red, yellow against black, eyes locked in a silent contest of wills. Of course, Jaune was at a bit of a disadvantage.

He was in a cage.

The saving grace of his unfortunate circumstances were that they made it just as difficult for her to take his weapon by force as it did for him to escape.

Sure, with a semblance like hers she could easily slip by the bars and into the cell with him…

And Jaune wished she would.

Dropping her guard and putting herself within striking range? It'd be like the universe actually tolerated his existence—just this once.

"Don't worry, I'll return it," continued Raven, unfazed by Jaune's initial objection. "I just can't have you killing your fellow competitors before the festivities start."

"If I want to kill someone, I don't need this sword to do it," said Jaune.

Raven tilted her head to the side, eyes running over his features. After a moment of consideration, she said, "even three hunters in training?" Raven motioned towards Jaune's three new cellmates. "Those aren't first-years. Could you kill them without your weapon?"

Jaune glanced over his shoulder. He hadn't taken a good look at the others behind these bars yet. He knew they were young. And he knew they were scared. But that was about it.

There were three of them. Two human boys and a faunus girl.

The leftmost boy was standing, staring at Jaune and Raven with a mixture of fear, wariness, and—impressively—hatred. His slight trembling revealed his fear… His defensive posture revealed his wariness…

And the hatred was all in the eyes.

He looked like, well, for lack of a better description, a punk. His blue hair was spiked precisely—probably the result of copious effort and generous applications of hair gel. A ring of piercings lined the rim of his left ear, meanwhile only one clung to his right. His jacket was speckled with dried blood—Jaune assumed it wasn't his own since he had no obvious signs of injury. The beginning of a tattoo was visible on the boy's neck but the design disappeared beneath his collar before Jaune could make out the design. His eyes were…odd. The shapes of his pupils were…unusual.

They weren't quite circular. They resembled dark diamonds.

Ah. Maybe this boy was a faunus too, just with a less obviously presenting animal trait than the girl with the ears.

So, two faunuses and one human. Maybe.

Jaune turned his attention to the boy on the right. His hair was white—not Schnee-white—more of a pale platinum. There was less wariness and hatred in his expression than his friend's. Mostly just fear. But not so much fear directed at Jaune or Raven, rather, it was fear _for_ the girl whose head was nestled in his lap. He kept running his fingers through her hair and stroking her furry ears. They were either close—closer even than your average teammates. Or the girl was in bad shape—bad enough that personal boundaries had gone out the window.

The boy's dark eyes were watery and his brow twisted.

Jaune's eyes traveled downward. To the girl.

Her ears were either those of a cat or a fox—it could be difficult to tell when they had that reddish-brown tint. Her hair was the same color as her ears—like Blake. Her chest was hardly moving. Her breaths came in audible short huffs. Her shirt was soaked with enough sweat to render the garment near transparent. The hem of her shirt had been rolled up to reveal the girl's toned, but now deformed, abdomen. A massive purple splotch stretched across the right half of her core.

Jaune winced.

It looked bad.

A bruise that size? And in that location?

She had massive internal trauma. Broken ribs? Probably. Were they puncturing any of her internal organs?

Probably not.

If they were she'd be coughing up blood and dying a hell of a lot quicker. As it was, her aura was probably working overtime to keep her alive.

The darkest part of the deadly bruise looked to be in the shape of a boot print.

Jaune glanced at Raven's booted feet.

Of course, the size was right. What should he have expected?

Raven's voice reminded him that he was in the middle of conversation. "They don't look like all that much right now, admittedly. But I swear, they had a bit more fight in them when I picked them up. One of them even had a semblance that let her burrow through the ground and attack from all different angles…"

Jaune glanced at the kids behind him. The two boys studied their feet. The girl continued to suck air.

Raven finished, "unfortunately, that one got cut in half."

Jaune studied Raven's sickening smile. She loved it. She loved this. She loved to be feared. To be resented. She got off on it. He was beginning to reconsider his "she feels nothing" theory.

At this point she might have been cold and ruthless—or enjoyed killing practically sexually.

It wouldn't have made a difference to him. The only tier of hatred he had left was reserved for Salem.

What had Tai-yang ever seen in her? Was he just attracted to crazy and dangerous?

Marrying a Branwen and a silver-eyed warrior were strong evidence.

He remembered the night directly before the second time they had challenged Salem.

The night before Qrow and Tai had fallen.

He'd gotten closer to the two older men. Much closer. Of course, all the huntsmen were closer in those days. With the schools gone and their numbers dwindling there were fewer members of the noble profession than ever before.

Sure, there were more people running around with unlocked aura than ever before—but of the formally trained hunters and undeniably powerful huntsmen there were perilously few. So that encouraged the remaining huntsmen to bond.

Plus, the wall of experience between Jaune and huntsmen with decades under their belt had all but vanished.

There was no point comparing the bloody shit they had seen or how it had affected them over the years. They had all watched an entire kingdom fall. There was nothing else worth mentioning in their lives.

They had fallen back as hundreds of thousands were slain.

People they were supposed to protect, slaughtered in droves.

So yeah, Qrow had accepted him into the ranks of the scarred-jaded-alcoholics club at a much younger age than the usual. Cardin had joined to. Although, at the time, he'd had a wife and a child on the way so he'd been a bit more cheery and hopeful. Constantly claiming they'd "wrap this war up before his baby girl was walking."

Alas, it was not to be.

Anyway, Tai.

Tai had told him that love didn't make sense. It didn't have rhyme or reason. That he had no idea how he fell for Raven. Why he still felt twinges for her—even after all that had happened between them.

His explanation was incomprehensible. But, Jaune supposed, so too was love.

Now, standing across from Raven—the woman that warm and doting father had fallen for—Jaune realized love wasn't just incomprehensible…

It was borderline lunacy.

"Here," said Jaune, thrusting his broken blade between the bars, pointy-end extended.

Raven stared at the jagged metal for a moment. Her crimson eyes traveled from the weapon to Jaune and back again.

"Just like that? I expected…a bit more resistance."

A younger, less experienced Jaune would have resisted.

Not when he was a teenager. No. He would have been too scared to resist back then.

But when he was twenty-two? Twenty-three? Oh, he would have told her to come in here and pry Crocea Mors out of his dead cold fingers.

Fortunately, he was a bit more levelheaded these days.

This cell wasn't made of iron. Or even regular steel. This was Valesian steel. Probably not pure like his sword. But thick enough to make cutting his way out an…unlikely feat. Then there were the teens behind him. They weren't armed. He'd only put them more on edge if he managed to somehow hang on to his weapon.

Plus, Raven struck him as the type of woman who would threaten him—then carry out her threat on one of the kids—just to test his empathy.

If he so much as flinched when one of them lost their arms, legs, or head, she'd assume she could best manipulate him by threatening the lives of others rather than his own. That would start a parade of innocent victims, all mutilated by her sword to break _him_.

Jaune didn't need _more_ blood on his hands.

Raven grasped the sword slowly, as if expecting him to try something tricky and cut her hand.

Jaune released the hilt once he was sure she had a good grip on it.

"What's in the back pack?"

"Food, water, survival stuff."

"Dump it out."

Jaune shrugged off his bag and poured out its contents. A map, a bundle of rope, a flashlight, a box of batteries, three pencils, several bottles of water, and a few protein bar wrappers hit the concrete.

Raven watched him shake the bag to emphasize that it was now empty.

"I suppose you could kill someone with those items." Raven shrugged and migrated her gaze to Jaune's sword. "But if you're that determined to kill, taking them away won't stop you either…" Raven held Crocea Mors up to the stream of light.

Jaune knew what she was straining to see. She was staring at the cacophony of scratches, welts, and chips along the blade.

"How did you manage to ruin such fine steel?"

Jaune turned away from her inquisitive eyes. It made him ill to see his beloved weapon in her hands. Literally, ill. He felt as if he was aboard a bullhead.

There were few warriors he counted worthy to touch his blade. His sisters were fine since the Arc legacy was just as much theirs as it was his. But outside his family, only Ruby and Weiss had been allowed to hold, polish, or wield his blade—and even then, only under extenuating circumstances.

Like when he'd badly burned both of his hands.

" _We've_ been through a lot. Listen, Raven…" He trailed off when he turned back towards her.

The woman was gone. As was his partner, Crocea.

Well...so much for reasoning with her. He hadn't even had an opportunity to drop Qrow's name or Ozpin's—or reveal that he was on a critical mission.

He wasn't certain whether Raven would believe him—but he was sure she would care. Even Raven couldn't ignore Salem, the maidens, and the approaching apocalypse. Extinction-level dangers were just as much a threat to her band of thieves as they were to the rest of humanity.

Well. It should be fine. He'd have another opportunity to talk to her. He had sparked her interest. She wouldn't just leave him to rot.

He hoped.

Jaune sighed.

The plan had been proceeding. Not perfectly—but not bad either. This was why he needed teammates. No amount of strength, skill, or determination could quite undermine Jaune's own rotten luck.

Qrow had once joked that the universe's distaste for the Arc heir pretty much overpowered his semblance.

The alcoholic hadn't been wrong. If Qrow's semblance caused Jaune to slip on a banana peel then Jaune's own luck would be the thing that sent him careening down an elevator shaft afterward.

Jaune analyzed his new holding place.

They were definitely a few feet underground. The light was from high windows along the back wall, a back wall from which he was cut off by more bars. Jaune could just barely see tufts of grass outside the window—which meant they were at least seven or eight feet beneath the earth.

He tested the bars once more. Not to see if he could snap Valesian steel, but to see how well the metal segments were held in place.

It was no good. The metal rods were firmly fixed, probably extending a foot or two into the concrete below.

Jaune stamped the ground. The concrete was well set. There'd be no escape through the floor. Not quickly at least.

Jaune glanced around the rest of his prison. He wasn't so much in a cell as he was in a giant cage. The cage was situated in a long line of giant cages. There were metal bars on all four sides and above. The welding looked good too…

Conclusion, it didn't look like he was getting out till Raven let him out.

It was an annoying concession but no less accurate. Raven wasn't a fool. She knew how to keep a prisoner. Especially, a powerful huntsman.

Jaune glared at the ground. Was there anything he was missing? Some angle that would help him escape? A large stain on the ground caught his attention. Dried blood, a lot of it. And it was recent too.

Could it be from the injured girl? No, that kind of blood loss would have killed her—she was too petite. Plus, only a medical professional would be able to stymie the flow.

Jaune gave the ground one last kick—just to make sure it wouldn't collapse into a convenient tunnel. Of course, it didn't.

Satisfied that he was not missing an easy way out of his predicament, Jaune turned his attention to his cellmates.

The pale haired human and the faunus girl were still in the same position. The punk boy had taken a couple of steps, placing himself between Jaune and his fallen comrade. His fists were raised, which was a nice sentiment, but the boy clearly wasn't a trained melee fighter. His stance was like that of someone who wielded a light blade, like Weiss. He was ready to thrust, stab, and parry—but throwing a punch from such a stance would be woefully ineffective.

Jaune exhaled. "You can relax. I'm a huntsman."

"So?" said the punk kid. "That…that…monster is a huntress too."

"Raven?" asked Jaune. "She's not a huntress."

"Liar," muttered the boy, sinking a little further into his…lackluster stance. "We fought her. She has aura… And a semblance…And…she's so strong…She's definitely a huntress."

The boy's fists shook as he clenched harder, pressing the blood out of his digits and turning his knuckles white.

It could have been anger or fear afflicting his hands. Either could result in shaking fists.

Jaune closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose. He held his breath for a moment, considering what the boy had said. There'd been a time when he'd felt the same as the punk. He'd assumed that Grimm were the worst Remnant had to offer. Then he met self-serving bastards like Roman Torchwick and power-drunk sociopaths like Cinder Fall.

He had been a kid back then—and probably younger than these three—but they had not seen as much, so how could he expect them to already know?

This could very well be the first time they had ever fought with their lives on the line against something other than a Grimm. If so, they could just now be realizing that huntsmen and huntresses fought against monsters in all shapes and sizes—even the human shapes and sizes.

Coming to terms with that truth was not an easy process,

Up until this point they had always thought of themselves as a participant in the struggle of humanity against the Grimm.

They were only now realizing that the hunter's struggle was against darkness in all its forms.

Creatures wrapped in shadow, yes...

But also, the dark blotchy hearts of humans.

Huntsmen were more than population control for the mindless Grimm hordes.

Huntsmen were heroes.

They were saviors.

They were avengers, justice-seekers, and death-bringers.

Defending the weak did not mean killing Grimm.

It just meant killing.

"None of those things make her a huntress," said Jaune. He approached the boy. "Any criminal, crook, or moron can unlock their aura, gain a semblance, and get strong. Trust me. That's not a huntsman. That's just a dangerous person."

The punk's eyes narrowed as he stared at him. "You serious?"

The boy obviously wasn't ready for their encounter to dip into philosophy. It was taking him off guard. Good. There were few ways to disarm cautious and wary potential allies easier than with a meandering conversation.

It was the white haired one, still on the ground, who asked the more pertinent question. His voice was small as he spoke, "So what is a huntsman?"

Jaune decided to quote the undeterrable leader of team RWBY on this one—mostly because he figured his own answer, "a label that doesn't matter" wouldn't do quite as much disarming. "Hope, justice, empathy—and a couple of kick-ass catchphrases and moves."

"You really believe all that?" asked the punk.

"I try to," replied Jaune. And he did. Ruby was just a lot better at keeping that faith.

Raucous laughter rang out from their left. It was a grating laugh.

Jaune turned. It was about time the other prisoners chimed. Honestly, he hadn't expected the blissful silence to continue for as long as it had after Raven left.

The laughing man leaned against the bars of his cell, face partially smashed between the bars. He was big. Very big. Jaune was pretty big himself—but this guy was Yatsuyashi tall. He must have been seven feet from head to toe—at least. Packed on to that giant frame was at least two-hundred-fifty pounds of muscle. But it could easily have been three-hundred too.

The man had a brutish nose, twisted and crooked, probably broken several times and poorly set at least one of them. His teeth, which he was flashing in a revolting smile, were yellow and brown—without a hint of white to be seen.

His skin looked dark. Black almost. But Jaune was fairly certain he and the man shared a similar complexion. The man was just dirty beyond belief. Sweat, dirt, dust, and blood covered every inch of his exposed body.

That was disgusting. But Jaune had been there. Sometimes you just didn't have time to bathe.

The worst aspect of the man wasn't his filthy skin, horrid oral hygiene, or his disgusting nose. of all was the ponytail.

Oh, the ponytail.

It was difficult to put into words how much Jaune detested the mostly-shaved-head plus giant pony-tail look.

If you weren't a girl or a very lean metrosexual looking man—like Ren—than the ponytail was not the look for you.

And if you insisted?

Then you were dumb and needed to rethink your life.

Jaune especially detested greasy ponytails. But _that_ probably wasn't just him.

Needless to say. Jaune did not anticipate liking the man very much.

He ignored him for the time being, returning his attentions to the kids. He moved towards the injured girl.

"So," Jaune began smoothly transitioning into the leadership role, as he had a thousand times before. "Names. Why you're here. And what happened to your friend. I'll help her as best I can, I'm not a doctor or anything but I have some battlefield medicine experience."

The punk boy looked vaguely indecisive about whether he would let this stranger go near his incapacitated friend.

His hesitation cost him the opportunity to try and stop Jaune. By the time the kid had made up his mind Jaune was already kneeling beside the girl, pressing gently on her stomach.

"You better fix her up." The voice came from the ponytail man in the cell across. "I want her nice and fresh when I get around to her."

Jaune didn't look up from the girl. The punk must have though.

Because someone added more fuel to the fire.

"You looking at me boy? You wanna come over here and get some? Do something. I dare you. I'll use your corpse as a pillow for what I do to your girl."

Jaune looked at the punk's face. It was twisted in rage. "Ignore him. Names and details. Now."

The punk levelled one last glare at their neighbor—for which he received only spurning laughter.

"Clint," said the boy, after growling in frustration. "My names Clint. That's Hao. And…her name's Vul."

Clint. Hao. Vul. Jaune repeated the names in his head in a silent mantra for a few seconds.

"I'm John," there was no specific reason for giving these students a fake name—aside from getting into the habit of responding to it. "So, how'd you wind up here Clint?"

Clint raised his voice as he spoke, competing with the increasing noise levels of the chamber as the other cells returned to activity. "We were on a mission—a protection detail. We were supposed to protect a merchant from Grimm. Then…Raven showed up out of nowhere. We tried to fight her. I-it…It didn't end well."

Jaune didn't let his face betray his face but he'd found four broken ribs so far—not fractured, really broken.

Shit. How was this girl still breathing?

"Valuable cargo?" asked Jaune.

"Normal stuff, hand-made baskets, jewelry, dolls…stuff from the villages," replied Clint.

"From where to where?"

"From Mistral to Vale."

Huh. Odd.

Sure, Raven had long reach because of her obscene semblance—the kind of broken power only the Schnees could rival.

But Jaune couldn't remember her ever going that far out of her way—not for a random raid at least. If she was after something specific…that would make more sense.

Wicker baskets and dolls? No.

Rare dust types and priceless artifacts?

Raven wouldn't have missed _that_ for the world.

Jaune lowered his head to the injured girl's chest, listening to her lungs. After a moment of concentration, he sat up. One of Vul's lungs was full of liquid. Jaune couldn't tell if the other lung was filling too, only more gradually—but if it was, she'd be dead soon.

"Are you sure you weren't escorting something…more important?"

Clint growled. " _If_ we were, then no one told us about it. If som—"

"We weren't," Hao quietly interrupted.

Surprisingly, Clint went silent immediately, allowing his quiet friend to speak. Jaune had to lean close to hear him over the other noise though.

"I don't think that old man was lying. And the only thing Raven took was us. No cargo. Just us."

Curious.

Jaune stared at the young faunus girl before him. Could he help her?

Yeah. Probably. A bit.

The question was, as always, should he?

Keeping a low profile here was critical to escape.

Any course of action that endangered his mission—even if the life of a young huntress hung in the balance—should be abandoned…tossed aside…left to rot.

"Ami…", the girl moaned deliriously. Her voice was hoarse. She needed water. But Oum knew what kind of damage had been done to her esophagus and Trachea. Could he jerry-rig an intravenous drip?

He glanced over at the pile of supplies on the floor. He had water, but no tubing or needles…

Maybe…

Maybe if the girl could hold on until nightfall…

"Are you the leader?" asked Jaune, looking up at Hao.

Hao's voice remained small as he continued stroking Vul's head. "Only technically."

Jaune gave Clint a questioning look. Clint pushed out a deep rough breath. "Amarillo was sort of our…co-captain. She…she handled the parts Hao wasn't as good at."

"You mean all of them?" said Hao, voice hoarse.

"C'mon man, don't say that. We're a team. You're the thinker. Amarillo was…" His voice cracked. Somehow, he still managed to finish. "The hype-man."

Jaune hated the way his heart lurched. He should have been beyond this sort of thing. He should have come to terms with his past years ago.

So why was it all coming bubbling back?

He shoved those feelings down with the force of a falling moon. This boy wasn't him. And this Amarillo girl wasn't Pyrrha. If he let his exhausted mind start making nonsensical connections left and right he'd be reduced to a bawling mess.

He'd already shed this month's tears.

Well…

That's what he told himself at least. He decided to change the topic.

"How long have you all been here?"

Hao and Clint exchanged a long glance at that question.

"A day…? Maybe?", answered Clint.

Long enough to lose track of time—but not so long that Vul's aura—weak as it was—had succumbed to her injuries. A day sounded about right.

"So, who's blood is that?" Jaune jerked a thumb back towards that blood stain. It was mostly dry—but still bright. It could have been shed a few hours before the kids showed up. But Jaune went out on a limb and assumed it wasn't.

Clint and Hao exchanged another look. Before either could respond, ponytail man spoke up.

"Oh, I'll take this one!"

Jaune groaned as he reluctantly gave the monstrous man his attention. He didn't really want to look at him—really, who wanted to look at a shaved greasy ponytailed bastard?—but Jaune knew, eventually, he'd have to deal with him. He'd clearly been here longer than the kids. And he was also clearly eager to talk...

Jaune stood and approached the bars. Those feelings of sadness he'd been experiencing as he'd thought of Pyrrha disappeared entirely, drowned by a disgusted impassivity.

"Wait is she going to be alright?" cried Hao.

"Wait a minute."

Jaune stopped just in front of the bars, a few inches of metal and a foot of empty space was all that separated him and his chatty Cathy.

"What is it Ponytail?"

The man's smile—which somehow managed to be worse than Raven's—did not slip. "Name's Chrom. Call me Ponytail again and I'll kill you."

Cause Chrom was so much better?

"Fine, Chrom, what do you want?"

"You wanted to know how that bloodstain got there right? It's a funny story. I just wanted to make sure you heard it right. You know how kids can be about the details." He laughed. Jaune resisted the urge to grimace when spittle hit his face.

"See, sometimes, _she_ gives us a special opportunity…" began Chrom.

Jaune took note of the near reverential way Chrom referred to Raven.

Of course, she'd have a cult following—even amongst her prisoners. Why wouldn't she?

Chrom continued, "…kill some fresh meat and that counts as one of your fights. So, she just opens a portal and pops one of us into the fresh meat's cell. I don't get picked much anymore since I _always_ kill the fresh meat. But today she sent some…slightly-less-fresh-meat in with the fresh-meat. And then—this is the funny part." Chrom pointed at Hao. "The ballsless one just started screaming, and covering up his girlfriend. For a minute I thought it was going to be a two for one deal. Just a spear straight through both of 'em. But then this one…" he pointed to Clint. "tripped him up. Then he just grabbed his hair, like this…" Chrom held up a balled fist. "And slammed him into the ground again and again and again. He was screaming the whole time too." Chrom snickered. "The guy was probably dead the third time? But he just kept going. He couldn't stop. Me and the boys…" he motioned towards the three other men in his cage. "Realized we were watching a virgin pop 'er cherry when he kept going for nearly a minute. It was something else. I honestly don't know which was funnier, watching this guy make a mess of his first time…" Chrom pointed towards Clint again.

Jaune looked over his shoulder. The boy's eyes were trained on the ground.

Chrom's finger retrained on Hao. "…Or the bitch who was crying in the corner like the useless little shit he is."

Hao wide eyes were filled with tears—tears he was trying his damnedest to suck back inside his eyes—lest he prove Chrom's point.

Jaune turned back to Chrom. He was tempted to reach out between the bars and, before Chrom could even register what was happening, break that filthy finger—maybe even take it off altogether if he could get a good enough grip.

But what would that accomplish? Aside from souring this extraordinarily useful relationship he was building?

Still…

It'd be so easy…

Jaune opted to continue digging for information. "What do you mean by it'll 'count as one of your fights'?"

Chrom found something about that question hilarious. It started as a tittering of sorts—but eventually it transformed into a full belly laugh. The other men found something in the cage amusing as well.

Jaune waited for their amusement to die down. Then he tried again.

"So?"

Chrom gave him a long appraising look. "There's only two ways out of this cage. Twenty-four victories and you join the Branwen tribe or twenty-five and you walk away."

Ah.

Suddenly Raven's random strikes all over Remnant made a bit more sense. They were breadcrumbs. She was leading huntsmen and criminals alike on a merry chase across remnant. Then she'd bring them back here.

Those who were Branwen material were given a place in the tribe.

Those who weren't were used as fodder.

Jaune had, obviously, never met the woman at this point in the timeline.

At this point in history he was still using Pumpkin Pete scented body wash.

His encounters with the Branwen tribe later, during his team's search for the maidens and whatnot—that had been at the height of Raven's power.

As one would expect she was even more of a pain in the ass when she had an army at her beck and call. Her bandits were everywhere, taking advantage of the mayhem and instability to loot and rob and, essentially, make hard times worse. Jaune could hardly count how many times a Grimm defense mission had turned into a fight against bandits.

And then—just when Jaune and a few others had resolved to wipeout the bandit blight—the war got rougher and the councils of the remaining three kingdoms went momentarily insane.

Jaune thought he had reached the limits of his hate for the woman when she was still a bandit.

Dealing with her after the kingdoms went and gave her that B.S. title, general…

Well…Jaune wasn't sure there was a single _"ally"_ on Remnant who made him angrier.

And he had worked with _Whitley Schnee_.

What would Weiss do?

Adapt, obviously.

But how?

And in what direction?

As far as he, Ruby, and Weiss were aware, in their timeline, Raven had always been a force of nature

In this one…

The bitch was still recruiting.

###

"Get up." The man stood just outside of their cage. Keys dangling in his hand. "You two, stand on the far side. Blue haired, with me."

Jaune quickly followed directions. Clint was a little slower but, still, he moved towards the guard.

Hao didn't budge, Vul's head was still nestled in his lap and he hadn't moved an inch since Jaune had arrived. The boy must have looked so broken and defeated that the guard didn't bother repeating his instructions. Instead, he began sorting through his keys.

Was this happening?

Was this really happening?

Were they about to unlock that door?

Because, if so, Jaune would be on them so quickly…

"Hey!"

Jaune watched over his shoulder as a second man ran up to the first.

"Raven said not to open this door. Remember? Just separate them."

The first man rolled his eyes. "I know how to grab a prisoner, thanks."

"She wasn't playing around Flynn, you open that door and she'll make your execution public."

The first man took that into consideration with a sigh.

Jaune watched some of the cells adjacent to them as best he could.

Were they…?

Yes, they were opening other cells' doors.

Great.

He'd left an impression on Raven.

How?

Who knew?

They hadn't fought or talked much.

How could she think she needed to keep his door sealed but let Chrom the ticking time-bomb out? Jaune watched the lumbering man walk out of his cell uninhibited. His mates cheered and chanted his name.

When the group hit a fervor pitch of frenzied chanting Chrom roared, "I will be back with gifts!"

Somehow, his fans grew even louder.

Jaune watched the undulating crowd of worshippers. He wondered just how strong this Chrom guy was. He'd certainly earned the admiration of his fellow jailbirds…

But was he a big fish in a little pond?

Or was he actually dangerous?

Jaune sighed. More importantly, what had given him away to Raven? Why was she treating him like he was dangerous when she could easily slaughter ninety-five percent of huntsmen? What tipped her off that he might be in the five percent?

Was it his mannerisms…?

Was it the way he held himself…?

Perhaps his scar…?

Ugh.

What had tipped Raven off?

Jaune's eyes flitted back to Clint when he detected movement.

A man-sized spatial tear opened directly next to the boy. Raven's hand reached out, grabbing the boy's collar and pulling him through.

The portal vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Hao gasped at his friend's disappearance. But otherwise remained silent. Not surprised. Not angry. Just quietly accepting his lack of control.

That boy was slipping.

Jaune would have to do something about that.

A second later the tear reappeared, this time outside the cage. Clint came stumbling out.

Then the portal closed.

Well...

That was unfortunate. Not only did he not get a chance to plead his case before Raven…

The guards had been warned to be extra careful around him. The social route to escaping this place just got a hell of a lot trickier.

Not impossible.

But trickier. For sure.

Jaune approached the front of the cell once again, as the guards shoved Clint forward.

"Where are we going?"

The men didn't reply.

"Where are you taking me?" asked Clint.

The man on the right decided to reply to his question. "Just shut up. Or you might not make it there. Nobody misses fresh meat."

Jaune watched the three disappear down the corridor.

He had a sinking feeling, a pit in his chest. He hated it, but his heart told him it was true.

Clint.

He would never see him again.

###

The snoring was...

Well it was insane.

So many men. Such close quarters. The still air of this entire chamber seemed to be moving in accordance with the breathing of a few choice behemoths.

Was this even safe? Couldn't this much rumbling cause this entire structure to collapse? What a strange way to go that would be—especially after all he'd been through.

Jaune could see the tombstone even now.

 _Jaune Arc—hero, general, legend._

 _He had a good run…_

 _But then he got snored to death._

Despite wanting nothing more than to join the slumbering masses for some much-needed shuteye Jaune couldn't go to sleep.

Not yet.

First, he had some business to take care of. And before he could take care of it…

He needed to get this kid to sleep.

Which promised to be a much more difficult task with Clint than it had been with his friend.

For Hao, getting the kid to sleep had been a simple matter of dragging the boy and Vul back to the far wall. Once Hao had some back support—and was still offering his lap up to his fallen teammate, he drifted off.

Clint had returned from the arena, silent, covered in more blood, and body shaking with, what Jaune knew to be, a mixture of excitement and fear that could only be brought on by combat.

Jaune didn't ask what happened. Between Clint coming back alive, covered in someone else's blood and Chrom bellowing about his own achievements in the "arena" Jaune understood the gist of it. Live or die. Kill or be killed.

Clint had done what he had to.

No one would fault him for that.

Jaune had been to several Branwen camps in the past—or, rather the future—but he must not have ever visited this one.

Because, he certainly didn't remember any of their camps having a full-blown arena. Nor, of course, did he remember their penchant for bloodsports.

"When was the last time you slept?" asked Jaune. He studied the boy sitting next to him. He could make out his profile by the moonlight that filtered in from the window behind but the image was anything but clear.

Oh, what he wouldn't give for some faunus night vision at times like these.

Clint blinked several times but did not meet his eyes. He continued to look out into space. "I don't know."

"Well, let's figure it out. Were you attacked by Raven in the morning?"

Clint shook his head but still did not turn. Head "No, the sun was setting."

"I assume you woke up pretty early that day?"

"Sure."

"So that's twelve hours. And you were here about a day before I showed, right? Now it's probably been another—"

"Is there a point to this?" Clint interrupted.

"Yeah," said Jaune. "My point is 'go to sleep.' Tomorrow's going to be another day of fighting to survive. You'll do it better if you aren't struggling to keep your eyes open."

"Literally," whispered Clint.

He may have added some more quietly, but Jaune wasn't sure of what he said beyond the first word. And he didn't ask.

Instead, he offered him, what he knew to be best in times like these, companionable silence—until the boy felt comfortable with the truth.

Jaune did not have to wait long. Clint spoke up after ten or twelve minutes.

"You know, both times. Right there and back in the arena—I killed someone." Clint glared down at his hands as if they were soaked in blood. "I didn't use my weapon either time—even though I had it up in the arena. I killed them with my hands. I could feel them as they died. As their aura broke and the spark drained out of them m-my hands were on them the entire time. And I just kept thinking to myself, what should I be feeling? What should I be feeling?" Clint wrung his hands together, as if he was draining towel of blood. "Should I be happy? Happy that I won? Happy that it was them on the ground and not me? Should I be disgusted? Should I be disgusted by what I had to do? By the dirtiness of it? Should I be sad? Sad for the loss of life—even if his probably wasn't heading towards much?"

Jaune sighed. He had struggled with killing at first too. All good people did. They had too. It wasn't an easy thing to accept. The problem was it worked differently for everyone. He'd met people who'd struggled with hating themselves, enjoying the kill too much, not knowing how to feel, unsureness regarding their decision—plus everyone's situation was different as well. Soldier's first kill was often in war—that was different than self-defense or an execution or vengeance or being forced against your will…

The point was…there was no one-size-fits-all solution. There was no easy way to help Clint.

"What do you feel?" asked Jaune, after a moment of consideration.

"I don't know," said Clint. "I want to know—but I don't. Maybe the answer, is all of the above? Or maybe nothing at all? Or maybe I feel like goddamn monster. I just don't know."

The boy's voice was getting rougher and rougher as he continued.

Jaune figured he was on the edge of sobbing. Jaune decided it would be better not to wake their, presumably, irate neighbors and offered Clint, what he figured was the least triggering emotional support in his arsenal, for now.

"Are you happy to still be alive?" asked Jaune.

Clint nodded, albeit slowly.

"Are you happy your friends are still alive?"

Clint nodded again, this time with more vigor.

"Then it sounds to me like you made the right choices. And having no idea what you were feeling during those kills…well you should sort out your feelings when you aren't sleep deprived. When you've been up more than forty-eight hours all thinking does is make things worse. Here, do this…" Jaune pushed lightly on Clint's shoulder, urging him to lay down. "Just close your eyes. And focus on breathing evenly. I know you're still riding that adrenaline, and it feels like you could stay up another week. But your body is exhausted. You'll be blacked out in no time. This sucky situation will be here when you wake up. But at least you'll have a better grip on things. Okay?"

Clint obeyed Jaune's voice and touch, lowering himself to the ground and closing his eyes. "What about Vul? Is she going to be okay?"

"Maybe," replied Jaune.

"You know…I'd do it again. Kill again. I will probably. For them. For her."

Even though Jaune wanted him to drift off he couldn't resist his curiosity. "Why?"

"Because…" said Clint. "I'd kill…for…family."

The boy went quiet. A minute later his head lolled to the side and his breathing evened.

Jaune had a feeling Clint was going to be just fine—mentally at least. He was still trapped in Raven's killing games so death was still likely.

Jaune crawled the short distance from his spot next to Clint to Vul's side.

The girl was still. Deathly still.

Jaune lowered his head to her chest. The other lung was almost full. He hovered the back of his hand over her mouth. She was sucking in the smallest amounts of air and exhaling—such small short breaths that they were no longer audible or visible.

Jaune wondered how she felt.

Obviously, not great. But was she in pain?

Or had her body had given up—dousing her brain in feverish hallucinations rather than allow her to experience the process of gradually bleeding out internally while also drowning—all slowed to an agonizing sluggish pace by her own aura?

That was the problem with injuries that were small enough for aura to hold at bay, like a gash on the lungs and a couple of broken ribs—but still fatal if the aura couldn't completely heal the injuries. Deaths like these were the worst a huntsman or huntress could experience.

It was like torture inflicted by one's own aura.

During the war, if medical support was hopeless, and it had come down to a slow death waiting for the Grimm, most huntsmen and huntress elected to have their companions…end their struggle. It was a mercy to end them on their own terms—quickly and with dignity.

Of course, killing an innocent—even out of mercy—went against everything Jaune believed in.

Jaune thanked Oum, or whatever deity was _really_ out there, that he'd never had too.

He placed his hand atop the girl's face.

And then he did something he really shouldn't have.

###

"John!"

"Mmm…" Jaune replied, his eyes remaining shut. "Leave me alone."

"John, wake up!"

Jaune groaned and opened his eyes. He caught site of daylight from the window above—so he'd slept for a little while—no telling how long though. That could be the morning sun, or the afternoon.

He turned towards the boy who had woken him, Clint.

"What is it?" asked Jaune.

"It's Vul, come look!"

Oh. Right.

Vul.

He should have expected some drama this morning.

Jaune rolled onto his hands and knees and made his way over to the trio of students. Clint was crouched next to the prone Vul, pulling up her shirt, inspecting her stomach. The once, massive bruise had shrunk considerably. And the colors weren't as violent as before.

"Listen to her breathing," said Hao, smiling for the first time.

Vul's chest rose and fell steadily now, and her breathing sounded more like the light snore of the peacefully resting, rather than the gurgling gasp of the painfully dying.

"She looks…peaceful…" said Clint. "Last night she looked like she was playing hopscotch with death—but now she looks like she does when she takes a nap under the sun."

Hao laughed. "She does, doesn't she!? She's asleep but she's got that smug 'you can't even imagine how good this nap is' face!"

Jaune felt a smile beginning to form on his own face.

The smile was aborted by a three-hundred-pound sack of shit.

"Ooh! Is the foxy girl pulling through!? You must be good doc!"

Jaune turned towards Chrom.

Chrom didn't take his eyes off Jaune as he addressed the men in his cell. "What do you think boys? Little bet? I'm giving out good odds. Will the doctor live long enough to get the fox girl in shape she'll need to be in to satisfy me?"

"That's a bad bet," called out one of the men from behind Chrom. "He doesn't even need to save her for her to satisfy you."

Chrom's cage descended into laughter—led by Chrom himself.

Jaune noticed Clint gritting his teeth, eyes alight.

Hao. Well, Hao was angry too. But his primary concern was protecting his teammate, the way his body curved over her and his arms blocked her from view—it was almost maternal in nature.

Jaune was starting to get an idea of their team dynamic—or at least the team dynamic that… _had_ existed.

No wonder Hao had essentially shut down the previous night. He was the team mother.

Watching Vul go through that… for him, it had been like a mother watching her daughter die excruciatingly.

What mother wouldn't be paralyzed by that?

It was a beautiful moment, ten minutes later, when Vul's eyes fluttered open.

A beautiful moment, for sure. Although, Jaune's understanding of the situation evolved a bit when Hao bent and kissed the girl.

The longer the kiss went on and the more intense it grew the less "mother and daughter" seemed to be the appropriate description for their relationship.

Jaune was no expert. In fact, he knew extraordinarily little about how to properly kiss a woman.

So, he probably had no right to even weigh in…

But he was one-hundred-percent certain that that was eighty-percent too much tongue.

"Hi," said the girl, voice small.

"Hi," replied Hao simply, giving her one of those smiles only guys who were popular with women had.

So…Hao…probably wasn't the team mother. Unless he was one creepy as hell step-mother.

He also seemed suitably cheered by the awakening of Vul. Did that mean Jaune could cancel that talk he had been planning to have with him? The one about finding a purpose and throwing himself into it. Because it looked like he already had a purpose and he couldn't wait to throw himself into it.

"PDA first thing in the morning," said Clint, shooting Jaune a fed-up look. "It's like we're back in the dorm. Yay."

The…sweet…? moment's throat was slit by Chrom—again.

"The fox girl is okay which, is _great_ news. We're all very excited about it over here. And because I'm feeling so neighborly I'll give you all a bit of my own good news. Tit for tat." Jaune approached the bars and stood across from Chrom, just as he had yesterday.

"What is it?"

"Well," began Chrom, with a pseudo charm to his voice. "At the beginning of every week we have an opportunity to impress the crowd. Too impress Raven. The one who impresses the crowd, and, Raven, gets to fight two nights in a row—and pick their opponent for the second fight. Now, I've won it every week since I got here. And I probably won it last night. And I think… _I think_ …I'm gonna be in the mood for fresh meat tonight."

Jaune glanced over his shoulder.

Were the others…?

Yep. They were paying attention.

"Are you talking about me or one of the kids?"

"Now doc, killing you would be a waste, wouldn't it? What if I get sick. Or hurt? I don't know how you fixed that fine piece of tail over there. But you must be pretty good. Because she was a goner. I'm thinking you're a keeper. You know? Maybe I can even get you over here. Me winning means we get the best food, drink—you guys'll start getting some _okay_ stuff because the less useless one there managed to get a kill. But it'll still be slop compared to what we eat after a victory—"

Jaune interrupted Chrom. For two reasons.

The secondary reason was that he didn't really think he needed any more information from him—thus there was no longer a reason to tread lightly.

The primary reason, was that, if what Chrom had just said was true, if Chrom picked him, he could fight tonight. Which meant going before Raven, which meant an opportunity to argue his case and—if that didn't work, fight his way out.

How could he ensure that he was the one fighting Chrom tonight?

By pissing off the ogre to hell and back.

"First off, I'm not a doctor. I'm a huntsman. Aura fixed that girl's injuries—not me. Second, you're right, you shouldn't fight me. Because I'll embarrass you. I'll break you. I'll show Raven and 'the crowd' how pathetic and weak and cowardly you are. I'll make beating you look so easy they'll think the only reason you've ever won a fight is luck."

Chrom's smile vanished as Jaune mocked him, replaced with a burning glare.

Jaune continued.

Probably longer than he needed to.

But better safe than sorry, right?

After all, he needed to make sure this guy was good and angry with him. It wouldn't do to have him picking one of the kids.

He needed to make himself a target. A giant, unmissable target.

Jaune knew he'd gone far enough when Chrom's giant grubby hands lurched across the gap. Jaune stepped back the instant before he could have grabbed him.

"Whoa. Chrom, premature action? I understand you've got a condition but can you really not save it for the ring?"

Sexual performance jokes. They really were the lowest common denominator of…well…humor and taunts as well. But on a guy like Chrom—Jaune had a feeling they'd be super effective.

Chrom opened and closed his mouth several times, no doubt his dumb sack-of-rocks brain was failing to provide him with even a mediocre comeback. Eventually, he just erupted "You wanna die that bad doc!?"

"The name's John," replied Jaune. "And, honestly, I find the thought of _you_ killing _me_ hilarious."

"Well, I hope your cut off head has a sense of humor."

Jaune stepped back within Chrom's reach. He was fairly certain Chrom wouldn't go for him again, although if he did maybe he'd let him grab him—see what kind of damage he could do to his arms before Chrom withdrew them.

"Funny you should ask…" Jaune looked Chrom up and down, as if he was sizing him up. He gave his most contemptuous smile when he finished. "I hear it does."

###

"You know, I'm not really certain who to believe here. You keep saying my aura handled it all. And you seem like an honest guy…but sometimes honest guys are too modest to take credit." The faunus took a sip from her water bottle. "And these two doofuses keep saying I was in bad shape before you did… something. And, Chrom, was it? He seems to think you're a doctor…" Vul trailed off.

"Yeah, well, the Chrom guy _definitely_ doesn't know what he's talking about," replied Jaune.

Vul smiled. Hao hugged her a little tighter at the mention of Chrom. And Clint frowned.

"It's just…I felt terrible before. And now I feel great…I've recovered from some pretty painful stuff before but my aura's never—"

Jaune interrupted the girl with a raised hand. "I'm sorry, but I really don't know what to tell you all. I'm not a doctor. And no…" he turned towards Clint before he could suggest it again. "…I don't have a healing semblance or anything like that. All I did was check to see what was wrong with you—only aura could do the rest." Jaune changed the topic—mostly because lying was a bother and—until it was time to hit the arena with Chrom—he had nothing else to do—so why not actually enjoy these conversations while they lasted?

Because once he got out of here, it was back to the grind. It was back to the plan. Losing a day was bad.

But he was still in the running to save the Summer maiden.

"Why don't you all tell me a bit more about yourselves?"

"You want us…to tell you about us?" Vul and Hao looked at each other.

"Won't your stories be more interesting?" said Vul, "You're a real huntsman after all."

"If you've heard one story about a huntsman fighting Grimm than you've heard them all. Trust me, there's nothing interesting there. Tell me about your school life. Tell me about your te—"

Jaune cut himself off when he remembered they had just lost a teammate. The wound was fresh. Real fresh. What was he doing? Asking them to reminisce about their school life and their team? He thought he had done away with his dumb aloofness years ago. How was he still sticking his foot in his mouth years later?

"I'm sorry," Jaune restarted. "I wasn't thinking. I've got a couple _decent_ stories. I once fought a po—"

"Wait," Hao cut him off. "I hope you don't mind holding off on that Jaune, cause I kind of want to tell you a story."

"What about?", asked Jaune.

"The most badass hunter team in Mistral. Team HAVC."

"You sure, man?" asked Clint. "Ami is…"

"That's why I have to," said Hao. "I don't know what's going to happen here. I don't know if we'll be rescued, or killed, or released—I don't know. But I gotta share her—even if it's just with you all. I may not get the chance to tell anyone else."

"Then go for it man," said Clint.

Vul stroked her boyfriend's arm reassuringly.

Jaune leaned forward in anticipation of a good story.

It started clumsily.

"Well…mhmm. You guys…" he looked at Vul and Clint. "You guys already know that I was in love with Amarillo for a long time."

"Wait," Jaune coughed. "In love with…the other girl on your team. Not…" He drifted off, looking at Vul.

"Yes. I'm the girl he settled for."

Hao kissed Vul's cheek. "That's not true and you know it. I moved on and I fell in love with someone else—much harder than ever before."

Vul smiled.

"I wasn't always such a great guy and boyfriend, you see. I grew up with a lot of sisters…"

Huh.

Well, Jaune could empathize with that for sure.

"And it just made it so easy to talk to girls. They were always all over me…"

 _Screw this guy._

"So, you know, I was a little…egotistical on my first day at the academy. I was scoping out the ladies—trying to get a feel for… you know."

 _SCREW THIS GUY._

"Then I met this girl, who just defied…everything. Including the laws of physics! I mean…I couldn't talk her up, down, side to side. She refused to be put in a box. She…knew what she wanted and…she…she just loved life. If she doesn't sound all that special that's because…she's just so hard to put into words. She was like those legendary, one-of-a-kind Grimm—only she was a human—obviously."

Hao rubbed his eyes with his free hand.

"Of course, somehow, we wound up being partners. And then we teamed up with this guy who wanted to be a 'rock and roll' huntsman and had hair down to his midback—"

"Hey! I cut that off pretty early that semester."

"He kept losing during combat classes because people would yank on it," whispered Vul.

"Whose side are you on there, partner?"

" _Anyway_ ," resumed Hao. "After getting paired up with a 'rock and roll' huntsman and this super aggressive faunus rights activist—in the middle of a no-shower protest mind you—I decide to sweep Ami off her feet. Expensive dates, her favorite movies, walks in the park—I tried everything I could think of. I was obsessed with bringing this perfect girl back home to my parents—like a trophy or something. Which, obviously is wrong—but don't think I only wanted her as a trophy. I wasn't just obsessed with the _idea_ of having her. I was obsessed with _her_."

Hao described a few of his more harebrained date attempts.

"No matter what I did—she interpreted it as friendship. When I finally worked up the courage to just confess. She apologized for not realizing my love sooner and for not being able to return it. She was in love with someone else."

Jaune peered at Clint.

Clint shook his head. "Wasn't me."

"She never told us who it was," said Vul. Not even me—and I was her closest girl-friend. That was the one thing she would get all nervous and skittish about—love."

"She didn't get skittish about it," corrected Hao.

"She did when I talked to her," said Vul. "She'd act like the world was ending."

"I'm leaning towards Hao on this one Vul," said Clint, "I can't see it. Ami freaking out about love?"

"Are you guys serious?", asked the faunus. "She would get super nervous whenever we started talking about our love lives."

"But what did you guys even talk about? Ami didn't have a love life."

"Well, she'd get weird when I talked about mine okay!"

Jaune didn't have the heart to tell them what he was hearing in their story—so he kept it to himself. It didn't matter now. Not with "Ami" dead.

"Well anyway," resumed Hao, "I was not…accustomed to being shot down. It made me feel a lot of terrible things. But it was also one of the most important times in my life. I grew as a person, in ways I wasn't aware that I even had to grow. And _that_ is what Amarillo did. She made everyone around her better. Everyone."

Hao's voice, which had remained relatively strong for most of the conversation…began to slip.

"I didn't love her the same way I used to—but a part of me died when she did. And when I thought you were going to die too Vul I just…"

Vul turned in his grip as grief began to wrack his body. She wrapped her arms around his neck.

Clint watched from nearby—offering solidarity but not much in the way of physical comfort.

Jaune didn't speak.

What could he say?

That he understood? That he knew the pain they were experiencing better than they did? That he had been in each of their roles? The crier, the comforter, and the stoic rock.

He'd been in each of their shoes.

And he knew those shoes sucked.

They sucked bad,

He watched them for a while. Who knew how long? A few minutes? An hour? Time blurred.

He was taken back to the day after Pyrrha's death. Ren was the rock. Hurting but calm, quiet, a voice of reason. Nora held Jaune, forehead nestled to his shoulder. And Jaune cried. He bawled and he wept until his body was physically incapable of more.

Damn.

The more he thought about it, the more he felt like crying some more.

But why? He had traveled to the past. He was going to change everything.

The world was going to be place of laughs, smiles, and happiness. He would make it that way. He would force it.

So why did he want to cry so much?

###

"Hey, you three, up against the far side of the cage. Blondie, with me."

Jaune watched the three younger hunters step obediently to the far side of the cage. Then he turned back to the man who was releasing him. Next to that man stood Chrom. The giant sneered at Jaune as he stretched his neck.

"I'm going to enjoy this."

Jaune couldn't have put it better himself.

"You know I am pissed at you," said Chrom.

Jaune was only half listening.

"I mean you're disrespect. It was disgusting."

Yeah, well he deserved it.

"If you had just said, 'Chrom, I wish to face you in the ring.' I would've said fine, it's your funeral."

Jaune looked up at the big man. His shirt was gone—a tattoo covered his chest. A single image, of a man being drawn and quartered, stretched across his chest. Each movement he made as he shifted his body weight sent tremors down his bulbous musculature, causing the scene on his chest to come to life.

"So, I started asking myself. Why? Why the disrespect?" Chrom smiled. "Then I realized your game."

Jaune whirled quiet as a whisper a spatial tear had opened next to Hao. A hand reached out, grasped his collar and pulled him through.

Jaune turned back towards Chrom, eyes wide.

"Oh. Looks like I was right. You were trying to protect the fresh fresh meat." A spatial tear opened next to Chrom, and out fell Hao. Chrom ignored the boy and instead stepped up closer to Jaune. "I figured I'd start with the biggest bitch. Before I move on to the…" He leered at Vul. "…better bitch."

The noise Vul released was high pitched, like a dog's whimper.

"I know," continued Chrom with mock care. "I'm anxious for us to happen too. It's just…I had to go in this order. I'm not a big fan of sloppy seconds." He dropped his mock affection in favor of a nauseating grin. "But I don't mind 'em if their coming from a widow. So, stay tuned."

Jaune stood frozen. Unable to move, speak, or think.

He heard Hao yelling to Vul and Clint how much he loves them.

Clint was yelling at him that this wasn't goodbye, to kick some ass and comeback.

Jaune, however, was awash in a sensation. It was like the sensation he'd experienced when Clint was taken to the arena. Only this one was less a feeling…

And more a certainty.

That boy was about to die.

 **So, I've gotten some questions about how "AU" this fic is. And that…is an extremely difficult question. So, I'm going to try and simplify my answer so this Author's note doesn't turn out longer than the actual chapter.**

 **Obviously, this story isn't set in a hard AU, like vampire RWBY or college RWBY or whatever.**

 **It is somewhat of a soft AU.**

 **This is partially because of my writing style. I like to write a mixture of high and low fantasy. Canon RWBY is purely low fantasy. There's no mention of organized religion (aside from fairytales, sort of), politics, economics etcetera…**

 **I don't like writing boring diatribes about economics in my writing—but it's hard for me to ignore the impact of, say, a decade long all-out war on the economy—and the impact that** ** _economy_** **in turn has on the world and characters.**

 **Because RWBY doesn't provide much insight into these high fantasy elements I may occasionally make something up. I mean, RWBY doesn't imply that there are** ** _no_** **major religions. And in a world with monsters, aura, and powers—there'd certainly be one—if only to give the common man hope.**

 **Maybe the huntsmen would be more pragmatic, as to them the forces of darkness are less esoteric, more measurable—but how do I properly write a civilian without getting into the central belief systems that would allow society to function without crippling fear?**

 **For those who are bothered by my use of "Oum" it's not just a dumb piece of fanon.**

 **I'm assuming that—if RWBY were to suddenly switch away from its small window into the world of Remnant and took a more wholistic approach like a Song of Fire and Ice (GOT) you'd see things like religion—and, at least for some characters, it would shape a decent amount of their beliefs.**

 **When I wrote out the character descriptions for Jaune's family I decided Jaune's mother was religious. And I think that added a great layer and dimension to the character—as well as the rest of his family.**

 **But in order for a character to be religious in this story…there has to be a religion. And religions have a major impact on things like colloquialisms. Thus the exclamation "Oum" enters their vocabulary.**

 **That said, will that culture carry into Beacon? Not so much.**

 **I think it's reasonable to believe that the religion that gives civilians hope wouldn't be helpful or necessary for huntsmen. They're less likely to even call out the name of the major religion's god.**

 **Why does Jaune use "Oum" so frequently even though he's a huntsman?**

 **Because the church got really big in his original timeline—as a result of an apocalyptic war. All (I think.) reasonable assertions.**

 **So, while I am going to take certain liberties with the world of Remnant—because the story is supposed to be an epic that spans a lot more territory than the show has given us—I won't obtrude the high fantasy elements I create on the window into Remnant Rooster Teeth** ** _has_** **given us. Mainly, Beacon.**

 **So, that's one of the ways AU elements will get introduced to the story.**

 **There are two more.**

 **The second is simple.**

 **With a new season coming out RT may expand on aspects of the world I'm already building into AU—like say, religion.**

 **Or Raven.**

 **What if they decide to make Raven a genuinely good person who's just misunderstood?**

 **That'd certainly twist my intentions for her character. As it is—I've got a pretty good idea on how to make my story congruous with the show. But we'll see.**

 **The third way AU elements will get introduced to my stories is…**

 **Well it might get a bit more controversial with this one.**

 **The first two seasons of RWBY are an incredible source for fanfiction.**

 **Absolutely great.**

 **Why?**

 **Because the first two seasons of RWBY are sandbox stories. You've got a school. You throw in a bunch of interesting characters. And then you toss in a couple of plots where the primary goal is simply to build relationships between the characters and flesh them out.**

 **That's a fanfiction writer's dream.**

 **In the beginning, RWBY was basically Harry Potter and Naruto's lovechild. And if you look at the most popular fandoms on this site—you'll see why that makes RWBY some amazing source material.**

 **Volume 3 poked holes in RWBY's sandbox. WHICH IS FINE. Letting the sand run out is an important part of climaxing Sandbox stories.**

 **But then volume 4 came out and Rooster teeth obliterated the sand box and took a leaf blower the sand.**

 **I'm not saying season 4 was bad or terrible—if you loved it I'm not trying to offend you.**

 **I am saying that Rooster Teeth botched the sandbox environment that was so carefully cultivated in the first two seasons. There is very little narrative movement or wiggle room in the fourth season—and that is because very little is accomplished.**

 **Why?**

 **They screwed up the time skip.**

 **Any of you Naruto fans? Remember when Naruto went off for training, maturation, to get over everything that happened with Sauske, etcetera…? They time skip two years and now Naruto's back with his friends and family? Why didn't they time skip four months and show Naruto training and being angsty about Sauske's disappearance?**

 **It's not because angst, anger, and a sense of lostness can't be a part of a story. It's because**

 **a. that's not what the story was about**

 **and…**

 **b. it was always the story of a group not just the lead protagonists individually.**

 **If only it was just these two caveats Rooster Teeth ignored.**

 **They also broke the cardinal rule of time skips:**

 **Progress.**

 **If you think about the gap between volume 3 and 4—the time skip actually serves no purpose. At the end of volume 3 Ruby is setting out with Jaune and company—with very little purpose or direction, Yang is depressed and traumatized, Blake is heading home, and Weiss has been taken by her father.**

 **TIMESKIP!**

 **Ruby is still out with Jaune—with very little purpose or direct, Yang is still depressed, Blake is still heading home, and Weiss is still held captive by her father.**

 **So, what do you think happened during that timeskip?**

 **Nothing. Nothing happened. There was no character growth or plot development.**

 **There's nothing there!**

 **So, when I'm writing a time travel fic and Jaune is referencing what happened after the fall of Beacon I encounter a unique problem...**

 **If a proper time skip had occurred—like a two year jump and then Roosterteeth used references and flashbacks to let the viewer know Yang** ** _was_** **depressed and Weiss** ** _was_** **held captive etcetera… then I could fill in some of those details and utilize whatever new arc was starting—like the hunt for Salem—or whatever.**

 **As it is. All I have is dead space. There are 6-8 months where, based off the end of season 3 and the beginning of season 4** ** _nothing_** **happened.**

 **And we know this because the characters have not developed.**

 **Well, that's not entirely true. There has been some reverse development.**

 **Ruby went from kicking ass and having a good sense of strategy to jumping into the middle of a fight between two individuals who clearly outclassed her and getting her uncle poisoned.**

 **And Blake—who we all assumed had the most tragic backstory due to her being the most angsty character in the show…**

 **Turned out to come from rich, well-adjusted parents who love her dearly—and also—she's more of a princess than Weiss is… yet she acts as if she's been a direct recipient of oppression—same as poor faunus working in the mines.**

 **The truth is: Blake actually has the least tragic backstory of all the girls. Plus, most of the bad stuff that happens to her is the result of her own choices—whereas the death of Summer, Weiss's abusive father, and Yang's** ** _disarming_** **encounter, were all the result of events completely outside of the character's control.**

 **Thus, these tragedies do not feel deserved and thus seem more tragic.**

 **I mean…Blake's basically a royal who decided to join a terrorist group.**

 **MEEEEEHHHHHH….**

 **This technically adds an important layer to Blake's character.**

 **But it's a pretty terrible layer.**

 **In the words of Eminem:**

 **But I know something about you  
You went to Cranbrook, that's a private school  
What's the matter dawg, you embarrassed?  
This guy's a gangster; his real name's Clarence  
And Clarence lives at home with both parents  
And Clarence's parents have a real good marriage**

 **Why'd Rooster Teeth turn Blake into Clarence? (If you didn't get that, sorry go watch Eight Mile)**

 **Overall…**

 **With no new arcs begun…**

 **No real character movement for months on end…**

 **And no clear idea of what the show is attempting to accomplish with the timeskip—other than age their characters…**

 **Well…my story may have to diverge.**

 **I will reserve judgement until all of season 5 has come out.**

 **Hopefully they actually start an arc and bring the characters back together.**

 **But even if they do, utilizing those eight months from the timeskip in a constructive way within the confines set out by Rooster Teeth is difficult.**

 **I mean Ruby sets out at day one—becomes a generally worse fighter and whinier by day 240…what compelling story can you write with that as the beginning and end result?**

 **All of this to say, there will probably be some heavy AU in all my fics if I approach those 8 months.**

 **Ugh.**

 **Okay. I'm done. Hopefully you actually took away from this why yeah—there'll be a dollop of AU in the story. Although, nothing that conflicts with the original plot—until, potentially—volume 4.**


	5. Strictly Speaking, Someone's Stronger

**Hola, so, barely got this out even because I've been working on this monstrously long opening for my new fic "The Navigator." I said I would release that last Thursday. Five days passed, and I was like, "why isn't this done yet?" Looked at the word count and it was at 31k—and it wasn't done. So, In the end, I'm splitting it in to three or four chapters.**

 **Writing that is why this story is a day late I didn't start this until Thursday evening.**

 **IM PUBLISHING THE NAVIGATOR AT THE SAME TIME AS THIS.**

 **So, if you like this, and think you might like a lighter, AU, but still adventurous story. You should check that out after you read this. I'll put another reminder at the bottom of the fic.**

 **So, chapter five of TSOV. A lot of people felt like the last chapter was a bit of a downer—after all the fun I had introducing the Arc family and whatnot. Well, it's actually a good opportunity to see how I write my narrative proper.**

 **I tend to divide my stories into Acts or "Arcs" if you like. (AHAHAHAHAHAH...ha...ha...ha.)**

 **So, as this "Raven Arc" is the shortest one I have planned for this entire series, you'll get to see how I write story segments—the stories within the story—in the micro.**

 **This "arc" is only three chapters long. So, each one has some very clear-cut roles.**

 **The first chapter was exposition and the beginning of the rising action. The second is the end of the rising action and the climax. The third is the falling action and denouement (conclusion). If you have no idea what I'm talking about and don't care—then please, ignore all of that—if you're interested in what I'm saying then just look up dramatic structure.**

 **You'll get a nice little diagram and everything. Hopefully, the purpose of the last chapter will seem a lot clearer when you've read this one.**

 **The point of all this is to say, I write all my stories following this structure. And I write my Arc's following this structure too.**

 **This story as a whole, had a short exposition section, and has gotten right into the rising action.**

 **(For those wondering and who read my other fics, Guitar Huntsman, as a whole, is still in the expositional part of the story, [which is why people keep sending messages like, "okay, but what's actually going to happen in this story?] you'll know when I actually get into the meat of it.)**

 **Also, still no beta for this fic. So forgiveness...please?**

 **Chapter 5…**

Strictly Speaking, Someone's Always Stronger

Jaune watched their receding backs for a quiet moment. They would soon be lost amidst the other prisoners who were being escorted from their cells. There was a nauseating feeling in his stomach. A painful certainty.

That boy, who reminded him so much of his younger self—well, minus all the cool things he had said about himself—was about to die.

Hao yelled some hasty "I love you"s to both of his teammates, the tone of neither boded well. The guards kept the group moving. Chrom laughed along with his cellmates.

Jaune's mind raced. His taunts had backfired. He'd gone too far. He'd overplayed his hand. He'd pissed off Chrom—but hadn't anticipated him being a little—just _a little_ —too smart.

All he had managed to do was piss the man off and encourage him to take that anger out on some children.

Shit.

Jaune snapped back to reality when he realized he was about to miss his only opportunity to try and set things right. Not that this "opportunity" was much more than a desperate hope riding a wish.

Jaune grabbed the bars before him. They were solid. Cool. Impervious to his rage.

He needed to get out of this cell. He couldn't do anything as long as he was trapped in here.

"Wait!" shouted Jaune, face pressed against the bars of his cell. "I said wait!"

Neither of the men stopped. Hao glanced at him over his shoulder, as did Chrom. The latter was grinning, the former was shaking.

"Stop! Tell Raven I know her brother! Tell her she needs to speak with me! Tell her I am Ozpin's queen! Tell her...tell her I hold the key to the survival of the Branwen tribe! Tell her something is coming!"

Jaune received some unwanted response from the men in the cells surrounding them. Some whistles and some jeers about him being "some guy's queen."

"Do you hear me!?" Jaune howled.

The guards dragging the kid away didn't turn. They didn't so much as slow.

Goddammit!

What did he have to say to get these damn bandits to listen to him!? He was sure they'd heard all kinds of pleas and begs during Raven's "recruitment" phase, but was they're really nothing he could say that they would find important enough to relay to their leader?

Jaune turned away from his cell's door, took an angry step, and then spun, kicking the solid steel.

It hurt his foot...a lot.

Jaune returned his face to the bars. He could no longer see Hao or Chrom or the men escorting them. But they should still have been in earshot. "Chrom! You better not hurt that kid! I swear to Oum when I get out of here I will—"

Jaune was interrupted by a heavy blow to his face. He must not have noticed one of the remaining guards getting fed up with his shouting. Jaune took a single step back. Was it his nose? Felt like his nose. Blood dripped to the floor from his upper lip down his chin in rivulets.

Definitely his nose.

"Shut up you idiot. You'll get your turn."

Jaune looked at the man who had hit him. He must have been closer a moment ago. Now he was leaned against the far wall. Spear in hand, eyes locked on Jaune.

The bandit looked familiar. Was he the guy who had been on the verge of unlocking their cage the previous day? Another guard had stopped him, explaining Raven's explicit orders.

A pity.

Jaune could easily have turned that into an escape.

How had the man responded to the advice...? Hadn't he just scoffed?

An arrogant prick who was terrible at his job...

Huh.

This was the stuff an escape was made of.

Jaune looked at his new best-friend a little closer. He was one hard to look at guy. His hair looked as if it could house several rats. The stubble coating his cheeks looked slightly thicker on one side—which was an altogether worse feat than simply not having shaved.

Was this what Weiss had seen the first time she looked at Jaune? Back when he had first faked his way into Beacon?

What had she called him...? Scruffy? Scraggly? Scuttled?

One of those.

Hopefully, whatever adjective applied to The Scraggliest-Man-Alive over here didn't also apply to young Jaune. Who wanted to think they used to look like a wannabe-alpha-male—the kind who'd hit an unarmed man in the face with the butt of a spear?

Jaune wanted him to do it again.

Now that he was paying attention, he'd grab that spear, then he'd yank the guard closer. Then he'd...

What would he do then?

Jaune flexed his fingers. Didn't matter. He'd figure it out when he had that spear.

He returned to the bars, pressing his, now bloody, face to the metal.

"Who the hell are you?" Jaune questioned.

"None of your damn business," replied the guard.

"Ah, another nameless grunt," said Jaune. "Mind getting someone who actually matters for me? I've got some complaints."

The man glared at him but made no move to strike him again.

"I'm serious, you know, Raven..."

Jaune trailed off when he noticed the man stiffen. That's right. Weren't Raven's followers a _bit_ on the fanatical side?

"Raven..." he began again.

The man's posture went taut.

Perfect.

"Raven...Raven... _Raven._ You know what I'm going to do to Raven when I get out of here?" Jaune paused, staring at the guard. "It wasn't a rhetorical question. _Do_ you know what I'm going to do to Raven when I get out of here?"

The guard growled. "You better shut your mouth before I—"

Jaune interrupted him. "I'm going to kill her. It'll be fast—since I'm a busy man—but I'll still make sure there's a moment of realization.

"You—" the guard began.

Jaune ran him over, "you know what I mean. That moment where they're still alive but they know they're about to die. It's just that...you know. That moment. That moment where she gets to think about it. To really...realize what's happening. Then she dies. After her eyes are wide and she's just about to start begging..."

The guard stepped forward, spear raised, jaw locked, eyes unblinking. His face was turning red so fast he could have been a chameleon Faunus. He lowered the pointy end of his spear to Jaune's eye level. Jaune smirked. It was his best impersonation of Cardin—before he had become a stand-up guy.

Jaune hated to admit it. But there was something legitimately entertaining about picking on people who were weaker than him—with the additional caveat that they deserved it.

Who was more deserving than a bandit?

The man made stepped forward.

Jaune tensed, preparing himself for action. Men in the surrounding sells, who had gone silent with Jaune began badmouthing Raven chanted as the guard approached.

"Stick him!" was their unified cry.

Jaune licked his lips when the man took another step. One more. One more step.

One more step and that spear would be within his reach.

"Brun!"

The guard froze.

Jaune followed his gaze to the right.

No. No. No.

Another man Jaune recognized, the one who had corrected the spear-wielder yesterday.

"Our leader made it _very_ clear we are not to approach this prisoner."

"He was saying—" began Brun.

"It doesn't matter if he was saying he'd drown your dog in your mother's blood. Orders are orders."

Brun grunted, returning his gaze to Jaune. He seemed indecisive, as if he wasn't sure whether he'd rather obey his precious leader, or stick his shiny spear through Jaune's eye for insulting her.

"Anyway Brun, your shift's over."

That seemed to decide things for the man. He stepped back. Jaune watched the spear draw even further away.

"You lucked out today, prisoner." Brun stamped past his friend.

Jaune watched him go. "Am _I_ lucky? Or are you just a bitch?"

Brun halted.

"The way I see it, I'm here... You're leaving..." Jaune hemmed and hawed as if he were in great thought. "Maybe you're the lucky one? Lucky that I'm behind bars?"

Brun spun on his heels and headed back. Jaune's smile widened.

The smart guard—damn him—intercepted Brun with an outstretched hand. "Whoa, he's just trying to get a rise out of you Brun. Don't fall for it."

"Yeah Brun," Jaune agreed, "don't fall for it. Just run away. I'm just poking fun at you because you're a yellow-bellied coward. No need to get your panties all twisted."

Jaune watched the man's face transform several times over the span of a few seconds. It reddened even further. His jaw was clenched but also shifting from side to side, which meant he was grinding his teeth. All he needed was one more push.

Jaune's lips parted.

"Hey!" Brun's friend suddenly shouted. "You're off duty. Go. If you don't hurry, you'll miss the good fights." Brun glanced at Jaune. "This guy just wants you to get in trouble with our leader. He's willing to take a beating for that. Don't give him the satisfaction."

To Jaune's disappointment, the thoughtful advice seemed to have a calming impact on Brun.

The man pointed at Jaune. "I'll correct your attitude later. And, believe it or not, you better thank your damn stars that Marick showed up when he did."

Jaune watched the man walk away, stiff, but determined. "Coward!"

Jaune's parting insult went ignored.

Shit.

Jaune turned his attention to his new guard.

Marick was it?

The man had assumed Brun's previous position, leaned against the far wall. He set his curved blade weapon down and withdrew some matches and a carton of cigarettes. He struck the match against the stone wall behind him.

Jaune watched the man light up.

Brun was a hot-headed fool. It was painfully obvious this man was not. Was it even worth the wasted effort to try and enrage him? Maybe he could...

"The pain help you feel something?"

Jaune was yanked from his considerations by Marick's question. The man sucked on his cigarette and exhaled slowly. He looked as if that smoke was the single greatest thing he had ever tasted.

After thoroughly enjoying his first drag Marick lowered his eyes, staring at Jaune. His gaze was a mixture of resilience, dead-fish, and devil-may-care.

Jaune sighed. Yeah, he wasn't getting a rise out of this guy. "Why do you care?"

Marick shrugged, taking another drag. "Just curious. You seemed pretty determined to get hit just now. I'm wondering why."

Jaune was tempted to say he wasn't going to let that moron hit him. But it seemed like a bad idea to voice his intent to kill his jailer and escape to his other jailer—upon whom's watch he would be just as happy to kill and escape.

So, instead, Jaune said, "I'm just bored."

"And getting beat half to death is the solution?"

Jaune shrugged. "Maybe."

Marick grinned, taking another drag. "Same, I wasn't a smoker till this whole recruitment thing started. Now I'm destroying my lungs because it doesn't seem much like there's much else to do."

Jaune watched the man release smoke through his nose.

The smoke was starting to drift over in his direction.

Jaune couldn't say he particularly enjoyed the scent. He'd grown more use to the smell of cigarettes over the years. But they'd never been his choice of poison. Something about the smell. It was just nauseating.

"Can I bum a cig and a match?" asked Jaune, for little reason aside from the fact that Marick seemed as if he'd say yes.

Sure enough, Marick hummed his approval. He fished out his carton and his matchbook. "You a big smoker?"

"I haven't smoked in years," replied Jaune honestly. What he didn't mention, was that the last time he had smoked, years back, had also been the first time. He wasn't so much a quitter as he was a first-day dropout. "Probably never been a better time to restart."

"I hear that," replied Marick as he plucked out a match. Wisely, the bandit did not approach the bars. He tossed the cigarette and match from where he stood, one at a time.

Jaune caught each. He stared at the two items for a moment and then slipped them into his pocket.

"Not going to smoke it now?"

Jaune shook his head. "I'm sure there'll be a moment where I'll need it more."

Marick nodded, dropped his cigarette butt, and stamped out the orange remains. Then he picked up his weapon and began surveying other cells.

Jaune supposed that meant their conversation was over.

Jaune turned, he'd almost forgotten about the presence of his cellmates. They were both seated. Clint's arm was wrapped tightly around Vul's shoulders. The girl's arms were around her knees. She'd probably have been rocking back and forth if not for the support of her partner.

The sight made him want to yell some more.

It was too familiar. He'd lost Nora and Ren at nearly the same time, a while after Pyrrha's death, so he'd mourned them without the support of his team.

But the curled fetal position and tight hug...that was almost exactly how Weiss and Ruby had looked after that first fight with Salem. When the demoness revealed Blake's fate.

Weiss held Ruby tight, tears streaming down her cheeks as well. Jaune hadn't been as close to Faunus as Weiss and Ruby...

But it still hurt bad. Worse still, was that they had no way of knowing what was happening to Hao. They had no way of helping him. They had no way to ascertain whether he was still alive. The waiting, the fear of the unknown...

It was just as dangerous as the actual grief.

Jaune inhaled deeply, attempting to clear his mind the way Ren had taught him.

He needed to be careful. He knew what was bothering him most about this situation. It wasn't sadness. It wasn't fear. It wasn't even the kids sniffling behind him.

It was frustration.

Pure and simple.

He was frustrated.

All this power... All the hours he had put into training his body... Honing his abilities...

Becoming a real huntsman.

And here was a situation. A desperate situation. A violent situation.

Essentially, what he had trained for.

And, somehow, he was stuck in a cage.

He was strong enough now. Strong enough to save Pyrrha. Strong enough to save Ren and Nora. Strong enough to save Hao.

But.

He was stuck in this stupid cage.

Jaune exhaled slowly. Then he inhaled at the exact same pace.

What if this was how this entire mission was doomed to go?

What if it was impossible to change the past? What if he was doomed to watch history unfold just as he remembered it.

One bloody massacre after another?

Jaune refocused his attention on Clint and Vul. What had happened to team HAVC before he came back? Had all four of them died by Raven's machinations? Probably. Was that still going to happen to them even though he had returned? Even though he was locked up in the same cage with them?

Shit. He was in the past. There was no doubt about that. But could he change it?

Now, _there_ was a question he should have spent a bit more time considering.

Jaune's heart screamed yes. It screamed that, even if he couldn't, he would, somehow.

But Jaune's head wasn't so sure.

Jaune exhaled slowly one last time. He followed that up with an equally gradual inhale.

He needed to calm down.

He was used to this.

He was accustomed to this.

It had bothered him before—in a different time. In a different life.

It wasn't the time travel that was bothering him—not truly.

It was the idea that there was someone needed his help and he couldn't get to them.

It had been a recurring theme during the war. There just weren't enough huntsmen left to support every battalion—to fight off ever Grimm incursion.

The inability to save everyone had bother Jaune at first. Almost as much as it bothered Ruby.

But he was different now. He understood that the only way to win, was to fight the battle before him. Not the one in the far-off distance.

He was harder now. He was more objective. He had a stricter handle on his emotions.

Loss? That was inevitable.

He accepted that inevitability. He embraced it. He couldn't save everyone.

Thank Oum, that wasn't his mission here.

He had come back to save humanity as a collective. He couldn't save individuals. Not many of them, at least.

If he tried to save too many, he'd miss key opportunities to save the future of Remnant.

Hell, he might even die.

Imagine that…everything he, Ruby, and Weiss had fought for. Everything they had risked…

And then he went off risking his life for the _few_ when he already knew the horrors that awaited the many…?

Jaune exhaled, trying to soothe the rage blossoming in his chest.

That's right. He was a hero. But he was also a soldier. A soldier with a mission to protect humanity. It wasn't his job to save Hao. It would have been nice if he could have. But he couldn't. He might not have been able to change this swatch of destiny for Hao...

He watched Vul whimper some quiet words into Clints ear.

...And possibly not for his teammates either. But he'd bend fate backwards if it tried to stop him from changing things for the people he loved. If anything stood between him saving the rest of the Arcs, team RWBY, team JNPR, CRDL, CVFY...the rest of Beacon...staff and students, of course, and then there was everyone he had fought alongside from Vale and Atlas and Mistral...and Vacuo.

Shit.

He really did want to save everyone.

"He'll be fine Vul, you'll see. Hao is strong. He's our leader. If I could do it, so can he." Clint hugged his Faunus teammate closer to his side.

The girl curled into him, fingers latched onto his shirt.

"I'm scared too Vul. But I believe in Hao."

Jaune watched the two students comfort one another. Clint had the kind of mental strength necessary for these sorts of circumstances. The kid would make a good soldier.

That said, he was sharing his strength all wrong.

It was a common mistake—one Jaune had made in the past: making unkeepable promises, generating false hope where there was none...

That only made it more painful when the inevitable happened. No, it was better to be a silent pillar.

False hope was flashier. It felt better in the moment. But it only made things a hundred times worse when reality turned to shit.

And reality always turned to shit.

*l*l*

Hao tightened his grip on Grand Reliever and widened his stance. The cheers of the crowd. The stomping of their feet. It was reminiscent of the time he and his team had made it to the semi-finals of the Vytal festival.

Of course, there were some differences between the two.

First, was the fact that he was by himself. His team had lost in the semis of the Vytal festival to they'd never had the chance to attempt the solo-round in finals. Even if they had, Amarillo, their strongest fighter, would have fought.

Second, was the crowd. This crowd…their screams…. their cheers… their shouts…

None of it was for his success. Nor for his opponent's either really.

They didn't want a good fight. They didn't want to win a bet—well, they probably wanted to win a bet.

But mostly…?

Mostly they just wanted to see blood in the dirt. More blood, that was, the dirt was already plenty bloody from the last couple of fights. Hao tried to ignore the scattered remains of previous fighters—the body in the corner, the puddle of blood in the center. But they persisted at the edge of his vision.

Something else had caught his attention too.

Stretchers.

There was no one on them. But they were there.

Now, the question was, would they be used to escort the victim to any kind of medical assistance?

And were they only for the winners?

Or, perhaps, just for those who impressed Raven?

"You done gawking boy?" called Chrom, drawing Hao's attention back to him.

The man had shed his shirt the moment he entered the arena.

The crowd had seemed enthused to see him—not because he commanded any of their respect or admiration, but because he provided the best bloodsport.

When Raven had spoken, that was when the crowd grew respectful. The silence and cheers she inspired were entirely different than the roars of appreciation Chrom managed to summon. There was, a reverence to their reception of the woman—as if she had descended from the heavens—a physical embodiment of their god.

Hao swallowed, glancing around the stadium. Was there anyone…? Anyone who thought this was wrong? Anyone who would speak up for him?

No.

No, it didn't seem there was.

He returned his gaze to Chrom.

The behemoth wielded a massive two hand sword, the kind of thing that would have been a rather cumbersome weapon for a smaller man.

The ease with which Chrom twirled and displayed the weapon to the crowd though…

It was as if the enormous weapon was no more than a rapier.

Hao had to be careful. That wasn't the sort of blade that respected aura or believed in its ability to protect its user.

That was the kind of blade that cut people in half, all day, every-day.

The fight had been going for nearly a minute now. Neither had made their move. Hao was starting to think this was the sort of battle that would be decided in a single instant, a burst of movement, a single slash.

He swallowed. Could he do that? Go for a single killing blow? It wasn't something he had ever done before…

Maybe whittling down his aura gradually would be for the best—stay as far away as physically possible, from that sword that looked as if it was crafted to split boulders.

"Do something already!"

"This a fight or a staring contest?"

"You guys here to fight or make-out? Get a room."

Hao ignored the crowd's taunts as best he could.

Chrom, however, surveyed the audience, nodding. "I hear you!" he shouted. He hefted his blade off his shoulder. Holding it before him. "Well, you done analyzing?"

"Not quite," replied Hao.

"I can respect that, I really can. But this _is_ a spectator sport." Chrom motioned towards the bored crowd. "And I'd hate to disappoint the audience, not win the right to pick my next fight, and miss out on all the fun times I have planned for your team pet."

Hao's knuckles turned white. "Tak—"

"Take it back?" Chrom interrupted him. He smirked, revealing his disgusting teeth. "Make me."

And Hao charged.

The exchange—or several exchanges really—they were fast. Lightning quick. Hao teased out Chrom's first slash. As expected, the speed of the blow was absurd. Not as fast as a rapier or katana wielder—but considering the size of the sword it was still, frankly, difficult to believe.

Once the tip of Chrom's sword hit the dirt, Hao struck. Two lightning fast blows to the inside and outside of his right kneecap.

Chrom flinched.

Hao saw it. The blows didn't get through his aura. And they didn't do any permanent blunt damage.

But he could hurt him. Hao danced backwards—expecting to create space. Chrom didn't let up, charging forwards.

In this way, their exchanges continued. Hao continued to dance away, trying to score small victories.

He was getting winded.

But Chrom seemed to be slowing too.

Hao put on a burst of speed as he cleared the distance between them once again, hoping to get a moment to catch his breath.

His eyes widened when he realized Chrom's massive blade was moving towards him near, goddamn, inconceivable speeds, like a dart.

He'd thrown it? He'd thrown that massive sword?

And it wasn't rotating. It wasn't wobbling. It was flying towards him like a bullet. Like a missile.

Hao threw himself backwards and downwards. He felt the air pressure of the massive sword as it flew over him. His weapon flew from his hands as his back connected with the ground, air driven from his lungs.

A half second later Chrom's weapon impacted with the far wall, embedding in the wood as if it was a mattress.

Hao's heart was beating like a drum, played by a huntsman on aura-enhancers and steroids—a dangerous combination.

That could have been it. That massive sword.

Would it have torn through him? Would it have sunk in all the way to the hilt and then carried him to the wall and embedded just as it had.

Hao exhaled, he was alive.

He was alive.

There was a crunching sound near his left ear.

He turned his head.

A pair of boots. His eyes traced the man's legs up to the rest of his silhouetted body.

"Wait—" he began to say.

"You okay?" Chrom interrupted him.

Hao was confused by the caring quality to the man's voice. Why did he sound so…

Hao began to sit up.

Chrom interrupted that with a boot to his nose.

Hao's aura flared as his head was crushed into packed dirt.

"W-wait," he tried again. He was interrupted by his aura flaring against another boot to the face. His nose was broken from the first blow. The second took out some teeth.

Hao took off before there could be a third, rolling away as fast as he could.

Hao didn't even try to get up. He just kept rolling, keenly aware of Chrom's heavy tread, never more than a foot behind him.

This wasn't looking good.

*l*l*

Jaune's innards went from sinking to plummeting to impact. The sinking feeling had started when the cells around him erupted into cheers and chants.

No way that was for Hao.

The sinking transformed into plummeting when he spotted Chrom, walking down the goddamn hall like he owned the place—a disgusting smile fixed permanently to his smug ratface. There was smeared blood on his cheeks, mixed with a bit dirt. There was even more on his bare chest. And there was a big wet stain on his leg.

Except for the leg stain—which _could_ have been the result of a wound beneath his pants—Chrom didn't look as if he had a nick on him.

His grin stretched from ear to ear, a mixture of brown and gold teeth.

Chrom played to his crowd of admirers before returning to his cell. Once he was locked up he informed the guard that he needed a new shirt—and also informed him what he and his "boys" wanted for dinner.

The privileges of the winners, Jaune supposed.

Clint and Vul stared at the man as he talked to his cellmates. And he stared back. Eventually, the conversation in his cell died off when they realized their idols attention was focused squarely on his neighbors.

"Why the glum faces?" asked Chrom.

Clint and Vul exchanged a look and then studied the ground.

Chrom switched his attention Jaune. "What was it you were yelling as we were leaving? Something about how I'd 'better hurt the kid' or something like that?"

Jaune glared at the man. Was it even possible for him to hate someone as much as he hated Cinder Fall? After having only known him for a day?

"You guys having a funeral or something in here? It was so loud earlier...I mean, you guys just wouldn't shut-up. Now though...Now it's like you're even breathing quieter."

Jaune's fingers curled into a painful fist.

"Huh...oh!" Chrom hit his open hand with a fist. "I get it! The other one was the talker wasn't he! The rest of you are just naturally quiet."

Chrom exhaled loudly. "At least, that would make sense if you were just quiet. But you seem sad too. Real sad. It's bumming me out—and after I had such a great night too. All I want to do is share my happiness...Let's see, maybe I can help you out, if I can figure out what you're so down about..."

Jaune's gritted his teeth.

He wanted to yell. He wanted to tell this brainless brute to shut his damn mouth.

But that was exactly what Chrom wanted. A response. Jaune glanced at Clint and Vul. The girl was shaking. Clint was glaring at the floor as if it was the object of his hatred.

"What do you guys think?" Chrom turned back towards his cellmates. "Any idea what has them so upset?"

Chrom received a flood of crude suggestions in response to his question, ranging from the theory that the "fox was in heat and on her period" to the hypothesis that Clint's birth name hadn't included the "n" to the much-applauded postulate that Jaune was lamenting the fact that he was "born balls-less."

After letting his group's gesticulation continue for a while Chrom shook his head, quieting them. He turned back towards Jaune and company. "I don't think that's it guys. I think these guys have been sitting in here _assuming_ I killed their little friend..."

Jaune remained steadfast. Silent. On the inside though, he was raging. Not just at the words Chrom was spewing, but at himself as well. How could he have so drastically misread this guy? He had assumed that the man was cruel and dumb. And Hao had paid the price of his stupidity.

Chrom was cruel—but he was not dumb. In fact, he was not even of average intelligence.

He had seen right through Jaune's attempt to anger him. And now he was inflicting psychological torture on them with at least half the adeptness of Whitley Schnee.

Shit, if only Jaune had noticed earlier. He would have spent his time playing to the man's ego—not aggravating him. Unfortunately, negotiations, human psychology, etcetera...these were the kinds of things Weiss had always been better at.

"Frankly, I'm a little offended," Chrom continued. "Just because I look like this doesn't mean I always kill my opponents. I'd expect this from the fresh fresh-meat. But not from a veteran huntsman. He should know better."

Jaune resisted the urge to respond. The same could not be said of his cellmates. Vul bolted to her feet. "You don't!? You didn't kill him!? Where is Hao?"

Chrom turned to her with the look Jaune imagined a spider must give a fly, right after it had entangled itself in the web.

Damnit. Now he'd _have_ to get involved.

"Well...I didn't say 'I didn't kill him.' I was just saying that I don't always kill my opponents."

Jaune drew closer as Vul timidly approached the bars—just in case he needed to yank her back or...more preferably, break Chrom's wrist. She wasn't quite within Chrom's gripping range, but it wouldn't take much for the devious man to lure her into it by lowering his tone.

Chrom glanced at Jaune, edging towards them. His grin looked particularly malevolent when his eyes returned to Vul. "Fighting, killing, it's all about respect. You earn respect with your fists. You lose it with your back. You live when you have it. You die when you don't." Chrom motioned towards Jaune. "He knows what I'm talking about."

Jaune resented the notion that he would have any idea what the hell this nonsense Chrom was spewing was. Jaune had never let an evil person go out of respect nor killed a good one out of disrespect. The very thought made him sick.

"Your friend had an opportunity to earn my respect." Chrom motioned to the rest of the cells surrounding them. "He had an opportunity to earn _all_ of our respect. Honestly, I wasn't expecting much from him. But...he surpassed expectations." Chrom rested his forehead on the bars, not unlike Jaune had been earlier. "I figured he'd just roll over and die—which, in case this isn't obvious—isn't something I can really respect. Imagine my surprise, when he comes right at me, weapon out, ready to fight." Chrom's eyes took on a faraway, glossy appearance, as if he were reflecting on some happy memory.

The expression was as appalling as it was fake.

"He's pretty quick, your friend." Chrom continued. "Kept trying to whittle away at my aura. In, out, repeat. That kind of thing. It was a good strategy since he wasn't so strong. Would've been a lot more effective if he was aiming for kill shots. It was easier to defend when I knew he wasn't going for my eyes or throat or heart..."

Of course, the kid wasn't used to going for the kill. He was a student. The extent of his combat experience was probably Grimm, sparring, tournaments, and the occasional bully.

Killing fellow humans—being good at it at least—required...mental adjustments, a retraining of the mind, tweaks to the muscle memory—and a willingness to take a life without hesitation.

Jaune sidled a bit closer.

"And that," said Chrom. "That's where things started to get rough. Here I am, in a fight to the death. Ready to kill. And this boy's looking to just...injure me?" Chrom shook his head. "It was an insult. To me and to Raven. And, unfortunately, insults...insults are disrespectful."

Jaune watched as Vul took a step backward, it was good that she wasn't moving towards Chrom—but he had no idea what would happen when Chrom's little show reached his crescendo. Part of him wanted to cut it off. Right here and right now. The other part sitting here, wondering what had happened to Hao would somehow be worse.

At least to him it would be.

"What did you do...?" the Faunus whispered.

"I was going to make it fast and painless," explained Chrom. "I really was. But then he started begging. Said he had a family. Loved ones. Blah blah blah. I'd never respected someone less. I normally take my trophy after the fight is over. But this one I took early, while he was still kicking. I like to keep them for myself. But he told me he wanted you to have it."

Chrom withdrew something small from his pocket. He tossed it through the bars, towards Vul. Jaune moved quickly, snatching the object out of the air. He didn't have a chance to see it as he stuffed it into his pocket.

But he could feel it. And it was recognizable.

Hard to mistake a human thumb.

"What was that?" asked Vul.

"Don't worry about it," replied Jaune, stepping between her and Chrom. He was well within range of Chrom's meaty hands. Jaune wished he'd try something. He really did.

"Oh. You're pretty fast there doc."

"Chrom, stop this."

"Ha," Chrom laughed, a bit too hard given their circumstances. "You want me to stop? You want me to listen to you?" Chrom grabbed hold of his cell's bars. "Weren't you listening doc? It's all about respect. You disrespected me. So now I don't give two Beowolf asses about what you have to say. That kid was a punk-ass so I killed him." He glanced at Clint, still seated, still glaring furiously at the ground. "The cycle repeats."

"All I'm hearing is cowardice," replied Jaune. "You're going to prove that you're better than me by fighting kids?"

Chrom smiled. "I'm not proving myself to you Doc. I don't prove myself to people I don't respect. I let them know how worthless they are. Ignore them. Or kill them. What I do to whom. Or when. Or what order. Why would I give a shit about any of that? You're all the same—well, except for the animal. She's got some assets I'm a little interested in..."

Jaune could hardly hear what Chrom was saying anymore. His own heartbeat was raging in his ears. There was a crackling static as well.

When was the last time he had been this angry? It must have been ages ago. Had he been this angry during their final battle against Salem? That had felt like an inevitability. Salem had felt like an inability. HE hated her—for sure. But she and her hordes were like a force of nature. And evil, malicious, force of nature—for sure. But a force of nature nonetheless. Hating her was like someone hating the volcano that had destroyed their village. Or someone detesting the tidal wave that had wiped out their town.

There was something about murderous human bastards that was just so much...worse. The pain they inflicted was so personal, so avoidable, so preventable.

Everything about it was just so disgusting.

"So," said Chrom. "I was going to save these for the arena. But since you, very rudely, stole that kid's last gift for his girlfriend, I'll bring them out early."

Chrom dipped into his pockets, again.

This time he threw several objects through the bars. Jaune knew he could catch them all, they were too fanned out. So, he didn't bother trying.

He just stared at Chrom, wishing he had one of those insane magical semblances that would let him kill his foes from a distance.

Vul wailed as the fingers rained down around them.

"You and Raven deserve one another," said Jaune.

"I'm flattered," replied Chrom. "You know, I think I gave the crowd a _real_ good show tonight. Some might think I was playing around a bit too much. But...I'm thinking I'll get to choose my opponent tomorrow too." His eyes flitted from Vul to Clint back to Vul and then to Jaune. "What do the kids say? Eenie Meenie Miney Mo?"

Jaune turned away from Chrom. He wanted to scream. He wanted to threaten Chrom. To tell him all the terrible things he would do to him.

But what was the point?

Chrom wanted to break him. Getting into a screaming match with him would just be the first step towards that goal.

Slowly, Jaune began picking up the fingers.

He remembered when he would have been horrified by the notion of picking up dismembered fingers. But he'd seen battlefields now. He'd seen oceans of gore.

He pocketed each finger wordlessly. Eventually, he got to the one held in Vul's trembling hands. Jaune tugged the digit gently. Vul surrendered it without a fight.

Jaune had always known Raven ran a... _bloody_ ship.

But he'd never expected this horror show.

It made him want to add a part to the plan titled, creatively, kill Yang's mom. But it wasn't that simple was it? Not when he knew what a critical role she would play in the future. Not when it she was the mother of Ruby's sister.

Clint was trembling where he sat. And it wasn't fear. He looked as if he was about to explode. He looked up, meeting Jaune's eyes. Jaune tried to pass a message through his gaze. Deep breaths. Stay calm. Don't encourage him.

Clint didn't quite get the message. "Chrom!" He roared., suddenly leaping to his feet, teeth bared.

"What is it cherry-boy?" asked Chrom.

Clint stamped past Jaune. "I'm going to kill you. I'm going to kill all of you. I don't give a shit about respect or whatever the hell you were talking about earlier. I'm going kill you. I'm going to eviscerate you."

"No respect from you either huh?" replied Chrom. "Guess that decides who I'll be killing next." Chrom glanced at Vul. The girl began to dry-heave.

Jaune grasped Clint's shoulder, pulling him back towards the center of the cell.

Chrom shook his head. "This is what qualifies as a huntress these days? Lost two teammates and suddenly it's the end of the world? Looks like Raven and I did some village somewhere a favor. Can you imagine if they were actually trying to protect people from Grimm? What's she going to do? Looks like she can't even throw up corre—"

"Shut-up!" screamed Clint. "Shut-up! Shut-up! Shut-up! Shut your mouth!"

Chrom didn't bother saying any more. He just grinned. And turned back to the rest of his cellmates. "Sorry-boys! I had some chicken-fingers for us to munch on but—don't worry—dinner'll be great!" Jaune watched the man's posse explode into cheers.

Vul was starting to choke—her airways closing.

Clint screamed at the top of his lungs.

And Chrom just laughed.

Jaune swore internally. Although, outwardly, he remained stoic.

He hadn't just miscalculated this guy. He hadn't even used the right kind of math.

*l*l*

Jaune's next twenty-four hours consisted of yelling at his guards to tell Raven that she needed to meet him. Enduring the hellish punishment of listening to Chrom's grating voice. Doing what he could to help the two grieving hunters-in-training who were enduring the brunt of Chrom's abuse. And internally agonizing over what the hell he was supposed to do about all of this.

His window of opportunity for saving the Fall Maiden was closing—if it hadn't already closed. And, worse, he couldn't even force himself to make the maiden his primary concern.

His mind was consumed with Vul's shaking and Clints silent tears.

It was shit.

All of it.

There were so many more people to worry about. So many more lives that could be lost if he didn't succeed.

Yet his brain was consumed by the two children locked up with him.

Jaune knew Ruby would say that's what made him such a good huntsman...

He just _had_ to save the people in front of him.

But it certainly didn't say much about his abilities of a soldier. And that's what he was now right? He wasn't just fighting mindless Grimm. He was in a war with Salem—albeit before the war had really started and long before she would know the name Jaune Arc—but still. That's what this was.

Wasn't it?

Jaune was lost in his thoughts when two guards approached. Chrom's cell. They let the hulking man out. "Whoo!" he cheered and stretched. "Bring her out! Number twenty-three!" Jaune scrambled to his feet, as did Clint. The group scrambled towards each other, attempting to get as close as physically possible as Jaune had instructed earlier.

Jaune kept a firm grip on Vul and Clint's arm. There was no way Raven was getting one over on him again.

Then the portal opened. It was next to Vul. A hand reached out of the swirling darkness and grabbed the Faunus's arm.

It was then that Jaune realized the crucial failing of his plan.

Vul was already partially through the the portal.

What would happen if that portal shut with her arm already through?

Jaune released Vul, watching her disappear inside the vortex of warped space. Before he could consider whether he should try to follow her in, the portal vanished.

"Why'd you let her go!?" screamed Clint.

"She was already partway through. If I didn't and Raven closed the portal..."

Clint's eyes widened.

"…yeah, you get it."

Same as Clint and Hao, Vul reappeared on the other side of the bars a few seconds later, dropping to her hands and knees. Chrom whistled when she looked up at him. Jaune didn't like her eyes. There wasn't enough anger or hatred in them. Just fear, despondency, and hopelessness—nothing that would help her survive what was to come.

Chrom, however, really liked her look. "Pathetic, I couldn't respect you in a million years." He turned to Jaune and Clint. "Can I pick 'em or can I pick 'em?"

Jaune could hear Clint seething next to him. Jaune remained a little more level-headed. Anger served no purpose but to cloud his judgement. He sucked in a deep breath, attempting to empty himself, just how Ren had taught him so many years back.

"Don't worry, I'll bring back souvenirs from this one too." Chrom made some bunny ear motions above his head.

Jaune flashed back, to the day Salem had present he, Ruby, and Weiss, with Blake's ears, a sick grin fixed to her face.

A familiar anger pulsated through him.

Yeah, screw that breathing bullshit.

He was pissed.

He needed to get out of this cell yesterday.

How though? That _was_ the question. He watched Chrom, Vul, and the guards escorting them move down the hall. Several other bandits were releasing others, each being escorted to the stadium. There were a lot of guards down here now, surely not all of them were on escort duty…

"Hey Chrom!" Jaune shouted. "I'm going to kill you when I get out of here. I hope you know that! You're only making it worse."

Chrom's laughter rang down the halls.

Not a single guard spared him a glance.

"After you comes Raven! I'm going to obliterate her! I'm going to break every bone in her body!"

That comment got a few guard's attention. But none seemed interested in coming over, unlocking his cage, and trying to beat him for it.

The bandit stationed directly in front of their cell looked bored as all get out.

The surrounding prisoners seemed more upset than the bandits shuffling through the hall with prisoners between them.

Jaune didn't give up. He kept screaming insults towards Raven. He claimed he would punt her head… Burn her body… Cut her up and feed her to a dog named Zwei.

Essentially, just about anything he could think of.

Before long the prisoners were screaming back, issuing their own threats against him.

Jaune didn't care about the petty threats of petty criminals. He kept screaming bloody murder about Raven Branwen. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen.

But, eventually, he came.

Just as Jaune had hoped he would.

"Hey, switch posts with me."

The bored guard in front of their cage dug a pinky into his ear, as if he were trying to clear it out. "I'm sorry, I can't hear very well right now, did you just say you want this screamer?"

The spear-wielder nodded. "Yeah, I'm down six."

The bandit pushed off the wall. "It's your hearing loss."

Brun turned his furious eyes to Jaune the second his transaction had been completed. Jaune pushed his face up against the metal bars, providing a nice big target.

"Hey, Clint."

"What?" asked Clint, clearly unsure why Jaune had just spent the last fifteen minutes screaming like a raving lunatic.

"Do you have a fork and knife?"

"No," answered Clint, confused.

"Damn, I was cravin' some Raven."

Brun's eyes widened and his grip on his spear tightened.

"Hey Clint."

"What?" replied Clint.

"Know why I've been eating light the last few days?"

"No, why?"

"Because I'm savin' room in my stomach. I'm savin' for Raven."

Brun struck without word and without warning. One second he was leaned against the wall, staring hatefully at Jaune, the next he was only a few feet away, the blunt end of his spear whistling up towards Jaune's chin.

Jaune caught the spear's haft at the last possible moment. He yanked, hard. He released the spear as Brun came stumbling forward, into Jaune's waiting grip.

Clint snatched the spear out of the air, before it could clatter to the ground.

Jaune grabbed Brun's shirt with one hand. The moment the guard parted his lips to shout Jaune slipped his other hand into his mouth, locking his jaw open. Brun tried to bite him. Jaune could hardly feel the teeth through his aura.

Brun continued to writhe in Jaune's grip, hands scrabbling against the bars. Jaune jerked him forward, slamming his forehead into metal. "Stop struggling unless you want more of that, only harder."

Brun froze.

Seemed like _that_ got his attention.

"Good. Now I'm going to take my hand out of your mouth, slowly. You're not going to scream. You're not going to cry for help. Because, if you do, I'm just going to start slamming your head into these bars. Again, and again. You'll probably pass out after the second or third hit. But I won't stop until your six feet under or eating through a straw? Understood?"

Brun was glaring at him. Glaring at him hard.

But he nodded.

Jaune slowly removed his hand from Brun's mouth and, instead, situated it at the back of his head. So, Brun felt extra sure he couldn't escape.

"Unlock the door," said Jaune.

"Suck a—"

"Clint." Jaune derailed him.

"Yes?" replied Clint.

"In my right pocket. Two things. Can you grab them?"

Clint didn't hesitate to dive into Jaune's pocket. He withdrew his hand a moment later.

"These?" the student questioned.

Jaune didn't take his eyes off Brun. "Yeah."

"This really the time for a smoke break?"

Jaune looked over his shoulder. Clint was staring at the match and cigarette as if he'd been handed a bagel in a gunfight.

"We're not taking a smoke break. You're going to light that cigarette and shove it in this guy's eye." Jaune turned back to Brun. There was a current of fear running through his expression.

Clint, behind him, was silent for a moment.

Then he heard a match light.

"Yeah, okay. I'm down with that."

"W-wait," began Brun. "I don't just keep the keys on me. None of us do. There're a few sets over there." Brun pointed down the hall.

"Clint, cigarette lit?"

"Yeah."

"I just told you I don't have any keys!"

"We're giving you a countdown from ten. Open the door. Or Clint here gets to work."

"But I don't have keys!" Brun's voice was louder now, drawing more attention. "I don't have keys!"

"Eight," said Clint

"Use one hand to hold his eye open, the other to burn it," explained Jaune.

"Thanks _dad_ ," replied Clint. "I'm not a kid anymore, I know how to torture—six." He stepped closer to Brun. "In case you were wondering."

Suddenly, Brun was screaming. He resumed scrabbling against the metal, attempting to wrench himself from Jaune's grasp. "Get away from me! Stay back! Help!"

Jaune's grip was iron.

"Four," said Clint, drawing closer with the smoking cigarette.

"Little known fact Clint, aura doesn't protect eyes well. Eyelids are fine. But the actual eye? Unless you're working with a shit-ton of aura…no protection."

Jaune heard other guards running down the hall.

He slipped his hand from the back of Brun's head all the way down to his wrist. Brun jerked his hand away, but it was too late. Jaune had ahold of him. He yanked the bandit's arm through the bars and bent it.

"We at one yet Clint?"

Clint, instead of replying, grabbed hold of Brun's face with one hand.

"Definitely."

Brun's wailing intensified.

For some reason, Jaune couldn't bring himself to care.

*l*l*

Vul hadn't realized it until Raven had given the sign for the fight to begin. She had assumed she would stay just as indifferent to her own life as she had felt in the cell when she was holding that finger.

But now that Chrom was bearing down on her, with a sword as long as she was tall, laughing, describing what he was going to do to her…

Vul had a realization.

A big one.

She wanted to live.

She wanted to live more than anything.

She fired a few shots at Chrom. They all bounced harmlessly off his aura.

It was good to have her weapons back, bracers that tripled as pistols—and retractable blades Clint had helped her install. They were excellent choices against Grimm. Against fast opponents. And when used in conjunction with the element of surprise.

They were substantially less useful against a man with as much aura as Chrom, who could wield a blade that large. To even attempt to parry his swings was suicide. Her shots were whittling his aura down—but it was impossible to know by how much and she didn't have much ammo left.

She feared his aura was proportionate to his size—in which case she had a long way to go.

She played it smart, using the shape of the arena to her advantage, staying on the outside and moving in a constant circle. She forced Chrom to rotate with her, to keep readjusting his stance.

The man didn't like that very much.

"Is this all huntresses and huntsmen have to offer—cowardice?" Chrom roared. "And here I thought, maybe that boy was just a fluke."

Vul's blood ran cold. Somehow, in the heat of fear and battle, she'd forgotten. She'd forgotten she was standing across from the man who had killed Hao.

"Don't talk about him," she whispered.

"What was that?" asked Chrom.

"Stop talking like you knew Hao! Like you knew anything about him!"

"You're right, I don't know much about the kid. I do, know a few things about him, though. Like how I think, I think, that's where he died, right, there."

Vul's eyes followed the direction of Chrom's outstretched finger.

It was only the hyper-sensitivity of Vul's Faunus hearing that warned the girl to duck. She felt the rush of air as the monstrous item, whatever it was, flew over her. A moment later, she heard it impact a distant wall. Vul peeked behind her, sure enough Chrom's massive sword was embedded in the wall.

Which meant he was unarmed now.

Which meant she could close the distance now.

She'd still have to be careful—of course. But at least she wouldn't have to worry about getting cleaved in two.

This would let her use her blades—which were a big part of her fighting style.

Vul allowed herself the smallest, fleeting, feeling of excitement.

She was going to survive this.

She turned back towards Chrom, only to find her vision obscured by…

His chest.

Close. How was he so close? Vul tried to leap backwards. His fist connected with her jaw before she could make space.

It felt as if she'd been hit with a war-hammer. Her aura absorbed much of the blow—but it didn't stop her brain from rattling.

Her world went dark for an instant as she careened backwards. When she came back to everything was still black.

Why couldn't she see?

Oh.

His hand was covering her eyes.

Or, more accurately, it was gripping her entire face.

Then he lifted her.

Vul screamed as her entire body plummeted towards the ground. Her head hit first. The pain was so intense she hardly felt the rest of her body hit the ground.

Her aura screamed in protest.

He lifted her again.

She screamed again.

He slammed her down, headfirst. Vul felt her aura break, exhausted. She was glad for it. What was the point of aura if everything was still going to hurt? What was the point of staying alive a few torturous extra seconds if she was just going to die in the end?

She must have done something wrong in a past life.

She hadn't bought into all that reincarnation mumbo jumbo for most of her time on Remnant.

But now?

Past Vul must have been a dictator or a serial killer.

Because she swore she had never done anything in _this_ life to deserve this.

She thought about Hao.

She thought about Ami.

She thought about her partner, Clint.

Maybe...

Maybe, she had just used up all her happiness. The world had decided that was enough. Maybe even the universe hated Faunus.

To her pain addled mind that made sense. A lot of it.

Fate, destiny, nature itself, they all hated her kind. But, more specifically, they hated her. It had to be her didn't it? Clint had Faunus blood too—but this wasn't his fault. It was hers.

The more she thought about it, the more the pieces fit together. _She_ was the reason her friends were here. _She_ was the reason her friends were dead. Someone, somewhere, pulling the strings of reality, had decided she looked a little _too_ happy and then she'd dragged the people she loved into her punishment with her.

The tears came unbidden. Her eyes were already wet from the last three blows she had taken—but now the dam crumbled. Her tears puddled against Chrom's hand, as she sobbed. "I'm s-sorry."

The tight grip on her face suddenly loosened. She could see the evening sky above her—well, she could see it vaguely. The girl tried to blink her tears away.

She heard the crunch of a boot near her head. Her neck screamed in protest as she turned her head.

"Are you okay?"

The voice was a bit harsh. It was a little cold. It was a little distant.

Still, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard.

"Please, help me," she sobbed, rubbing at her eyes.

Eyes like slices of sky blinked twice as they looked her over.

"Yeah. You're safe now."

*l*l*

Jaune surveyed the arena as Clint checked Vul for injuries.

It was a pretty impressive structure, all things considered. He'd been to a couple of the Bandit camps over the years—none of them had ever had something like this in them. It was like the coliseum in Mistral only this one was constructed of wood, not stone. There was generous number of people in the stands—Raven's tribe was swelling.

And there was Raven, in the highest position—obviously—a box she appeared to share with a few others. Jaune looked a little closer. Was...? Yep. Vernal was up there too.

Great, another problem he didn't want to deal with.

Jaune glanced at Chrom. The man had taken a few steps back when he had spotted Jaune and Clint. He was keeping his distance for now, looking questioningly up towards Raven.

Raven, right.

He needed to speak with Raven.

He met her intense gaze with his own. Her eyes narrowed at him. He just tilted his head to the side and exhaled.

He spoke. Loud enough for the entire stadium to hear. "I told them I needed to speak to you but they wouldn't listen."

Raven stared at him in silence for a long minute, no doubt deciding whether she would respond. The rest of the crowd waited in silence, hanging on every word of their conversation. "You mean to say; my men know better than to bother their leader with the ramblings of a prisoner?"

The audience laughed.

"Listen Raven, I don't want a measuring contest—your brother already told me that no one's as big a dick as you."

The audience went silent at that.

Raven stood. "You know Qrow?"

"We have the same employer."

Raven's eyes narrowed. "You're one of Ozpin's."

Jaune nodded. "I was in the middle of a very... _sensitive_ mission before you locked me up. You're ruining Ozpin's timeta—"

"Was this all you wanted to tell me? That you were busy when I picked you up? Why should I care about Ozpin's games?"

Jaune resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Come off it Raven. You and I both know why. I didn't spend two years in the Grimmlands, trying to save the world, for you to go and mess everything up." Raven hopped into the arena, treating the twenty feet fall as if she were stepping down a curb.

The red-eyed woman approached him, eyes narrowed to slits. "You were in the Grimmlands for two years?"

Jaune nodded.

She stopped a few feet away from him. "What were you doing?"

"Looking for something."

"Not someone?"

It was Jaune's turn to narrow his eyes. "Maybe someone."

"Did you find her?"

"I'd still be in the Grimmlands if I hadn't."

Raven's eyes ran over his face. Probably searching for some sign of falsehood.

Too bad for her, he had gotten rather proficient at lying over the years. He didn't like dishonesty and he didn't rely on it often. But this was Raven Branwen.

Sometimes all you could do was lie.

"You're telling the truth," said Raven finally.

"I know a little too much not to be," said Jaune, putting on his best 'mildly annoyed face.' Although, face he really wanted to be wearing now was the—'I'm going to punch you into next week face'.

He wasn't sure that would get the job done though.

"So, where is she?" asked Raven.

"Why? You planning to challenge her one-on-one?"

"Call it idle curiosity."

Jaune folded his arms. "I report to Ozpin—not you."

"Strange." Raven smiled—but it didn't quite make it up to her eyes, which were locked on him in an intense glare, willing him to submit. "A moment ago, you sounded so interested in leaving. Now it sounds like you want to stay a couple more nights."

"C'mon Raven. Stop pretending like you couldn't care less about Ozpin's plans. You hate him. I barely trust him. We both know his methods leave much to be desired. But when it comes down to it...the dark Queen is moving. And the only white pieces on the board are Ozpin's. No one. And I mean no one. Not bandits, not huntsmen, not kings, not villagers—no one wins if Grimm win."

Raven stared at Jaune for a long moment. "You even sound like Ozpin."

"I get that sometimes," he replied.

"Alright...what's your name?"

"John."

"Alright, John, you're free to go." Raven pointed towards a gap in the stands, manned by three bandits. "Exit's that way."

"Yeah, no. That's not going to cut it. I need to meet up with Qrow. And I know how your semblance works. I need you to take me."

Raven grabbed a handful of her hair and brought it before her eyes. She dropped it a second later. "My hair hasn't turned yellow. Why else would you mistake me for a Taxi?"

"It's your fault I'm off schedule Raven. And the information I have has an expiration date. I was supposed to get it to Qrow and he was going to fly it back to Ozpin. Now I've lost Oum knows how much time. It may already be too late."

"So, you need a portal huh..." said Raven.

"And I'm taking these two kids with me," Jaune added.

Raven peered around him, at Vul and Clint. "And how are they relevant to your mission?"

"They're not..." Jaune didn't bother with trying to lie. How could he claim that two students—who had been captured on the other side of the world—had been involved in a Grimmlands infiltration mission? "...but they're still coming with me."

"Oh, is that so?"

Raven snapped her fingers. A spatial tear opened behind her. "There you go. A portal to Qrow. But I'm afraid the offer is for you only, _John_. They..." She pointed at Clint and Vul. "They leave here the same way as everyone else. In a body bag, as a bandit, or as a champion. Twenty-four fights you're in. Twenty-five fights you're free."

"Let me guess, you're the twenty-fifth fight?"

Raven shrugged. "It _could_ be anyone John."

"It _could_ be anyone. But it's _always_ you...isn't it?"

Raven snapped her fingers again. The portal behind her disappeared. A new one opened in its place. She stepped through. She reappeared in her box—overlooking the arena.

"I've handed down my verdict John!" Her voice was loud once again, thundering over the crowd. "You may leave. But you leave alone."

The spectators roared.

At what? Jaune wasn't sure.

Perhaps it was just Raven's voice they liked so much. He found it rather grating.

Regardless...

He wasn't sure what to do. There were only three options. But there were far more considerations.

He reviewed the options first.

One, he left, met with Qrow, and moved on with the plan as if none of this had ever happened. In that case, Clint and Vul would likely be left to the same fates that had befallen them in the original timeline.

Two, he stayed, and continued to play by Raven's rules while supporting Clint and Vul—which really wasn't worth considering. He was already too far behind schedule. What was the point of saving two students if he didn't prevent humanity's extinction?

Three, he fought his way out, with Vul and Clint. Another stupid idea. The kids he was trying to protect would almost certainly die. And it would place himself at risk too. Until he was actively carrying out the plan shouldn't he do everything in his power to avoid putting himself at risk? Wasn't his life—because of what he was attempting to do—more valuable?

There was so much to consider.

There was Vul's current injuries.

There was Clint.

There was the Fall Maiden—who was, very likely, already comatose.

There was the plan as a whole.

There was his own life.

There was Raven.

There was this entire barbaric event.

Jaune pinched the bridge of his nose.

So much to think through, and the roar of the blood-thirsty crowd wasn't helping. Jaune glanced back at Vul and Clint. His eyes wandered towards Chrom. The man was gripping his groin, slowly thrusting his hips back and forth. Finger pointed toward the girl.

Vul was clutching Clint's arm weakly—but, clearly, she was using all the strength she could muster.

Clint was outraged, murderously so. Jaune could see it in his unblinking eyes.

But he'd probably die all the same.

Jaune inhaled deeply.

He couldn't believe he was about to say this.

*l*l*

"Because," explained Raven in a hushed voice, while keeping her eyes trained on the blond in the arena. "It seems he works with my brother. And is in the midst of something...quite important."

Vernal nodded. "Why does he—"

"Want the fighters?" filled in Raven. "Probably a bleeding heart-type. Or maybe he wants them for something else—hell if I know. He's an interesting one though."

Vernal was silent for a moment.

Raven turned, watching her, trying to gauge the thoughts flickering through her " _Maiden's_ " mind.

"Why don't you just..."

Raven shushed her when John shouted

"Raven!"

Raven stood. The crowd quieted.

"I'll fight for them. All fifty fights."

Raven heard Vernal take a sharp breath.

Raven grinned. "Told you he was an interesting one." Louder, she said, "I thought you were in a hurry. Something about...information with an expiration date?"

"I've got time, not a ton of it. But some."

"Okay," she looked over his solid form. His scarred face. His, unfaltering gaze. He'd be a contender. A real one. "I'll allow it."

John dipped his head. "Thanks."

Raven nodded and turned back toward Vernal.

But, apparently, John wasn't quite done. "In the interest of saving time. Can I fight two at a time?"

Raven turned back to him. "I'll allow it, but are you certain you wish to gamble your life like that?"

John dipped his head again. "I'm sure."

"Very well." Raven turned back to Vernal.

"Can I fight three?"

Raven glared at John. He was waiting for her to turn away on purpose. Composure, however, was key in front of her people. Composure—or rage. One or the other. Irritation showed weakness.

"You may confirm with today's gamemaster how many foes you wish to take on." She pointed to the man standing just outside the tunnel through which they escorted competitors.

John dipped his head. He jogged the few feet to boy and girl for whom he was going through so much trouble. They had a short yet animated conversation then he, and the boy, carefully lifted the girl and hustled towards the gamemaster.

Raven watched John talk to the gamemaster. He pointed towards her several times. Eventually, the gamemaster nodded and disappeared down the tunnel.

Vernal cleared her throat.

That's right. She was saying something before, wasn't she? Raven turned towards her. "Yes?"

"I guess I'm just wondering...why don't we just...let the kids go?"

Raven considered the question for a moment, listening to the dull roar of the crowd as she thought.

"They're weak Vernal. And I don't just mean physically. I mean mentally too. Only one of them wasn't. And I accidentally killed her..." Raven shook her head. "My point is, weakness gets you nothing in this world Vernal. Nothing. The strong shape the course of history. The weak slow it down. Bringing them here was either going to bring out their strength—or cull the world's weakness. It's not as if they're civilians. It's not as if they're carpenters or cobblers. They chose a path where strength is necessary. If they don't have it. Then it's better for the world to find out here and now."

Raven watched Vernal consider her words. The woman took her time. Three or four minutes passed—at least. Raven kept her attention focused on her swirling expression.

"Do you think I'm weak? Since I ran."

"You didn't _run_ Vernal. You chose. The only way to run is to do nothing. You chose not to play those old fools' game. And you chose not to take on _that_ responsibility—a wise choice I might add. If I could take back…"

Raven trailed off when she realized something had changed in her surroundings. The roar of her people talking amongst themselves—it had faded. Raven turned, to see what had so captured their attention. The arena was practically full.

Well over thirty men covered half the arena, Chrom at the front, more filing in from the back.

John stood on the other side of the arena, isolated, watching the proceedings impassively.

"What is this?" she shouted.

John looked up. "You said I could tell the gamemaster how many I wanted to fight, right? Is this not okay?"

Raven watched as a few more men trickled in. Fifty-to-one. He wished to fight fifty-to-one.

Raven couldn't stop the excited grin surging across her face. "I'll allow it."

"Can I get my sword back?"

"You want a broken sword?"

"Absolutely."

Raven opened a portal to her bedroom and grabbed the sword off the dresser. She hurried back. She had no idea what the hell she was about to see—but she sure as hell didn't want to miss it.

*l*l*

Chrom watched man after man file in behind him. Was this a joke?

Was it a scheme?

He glanced at John, the one who had talked so casually to his future master. He had started acting like he owned this sacred place—and, suddenly, Chrom had an army at his back.

John exchanged a few more shouts with their leader, then she disappeared for a few seconds, and returned with a sword.

A single, broken sword.

John's whole body relaxed when he received the fractured piece of metal—Chrom could see it in his posture. As if the blade had taken away his woes.

This had to be a joke. A wisp of a huntsman. With a broken sword. Versus fifty fighters?

Including Chrom!?

And he was smiling.

He was smiling.

Not a big, obnoxious smile. Hardly even noticeable.

But he kept glancing at his sword and then off at those two bitches that had been pulled up into the stands.

And Chrom could swear, he saw the corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

Something hot and ugly began to boil in Chrom's stomach.

He hated people who weren't deserving of respect.

He hated to be personally disrespected.

But what he hated the most was to see the people and institutions he respected be disrespected.

And this arena. This dirt. The blood on the ground. The adulations of the crowd.

The pure, unsullied, violence of it all.

This, was what he respected.

This was what he respected more than anything.

And John was making a mockery of it. Worse yet, he was making a mockery of it—in the middle of Chrom's fight.

The rest of the world faded as he focused on John.

The plan had been to start with the kids. Make John understand the terror, the awe he should feel—towards Chrom and—more importantly—the arena.

But none of that mattered anymore. Chrom slashed his blade. He was going to pulverize John. He was going to reduce him to a stain.

"Fighters! Take your positions!" the gamemaster cried.

Chrom ignored the usual placements on each side of the arena. He strolled up to John, until he was only a foot away from him. He stared down at him.

John's eyes were mellow, sort of resigned. Not much energy. Not much passion.

More sacrilege.

"C-Chrom. That's not your side of the arena. Y-you know the rules."

Chromn ignored the gamemaster. How the hell had a weakling like that managed to enter Raven's forces?

Instead of addressing the coward. He more spat than spoke to John. "You think you can just come here and..." Chrom wasn't sure where to start with his reasons for hating this man. "I'm going to crush you. I'm going fold you into a—"

"You really talk a lot huh?" John interrupted him.

He interrupted him. Again.

He had interrupted him again.

Chrom felt a throbbing vein in his forehead threatening to burst.

"Thumper! Do it!" Chrom shouted.

"Has the fight even started yet?" returned Thumper.

"Just do it!" Chrom roared.

Chrom stepped to the side as a man behind him yelled, "steal." John's broken sword flew from his grip, disappearing into the crowd of fighters.

John looked down at his empty hand. "That's a pretty annoying semblance."

"Hey!" shouted the gamemaster. "The fight hasn't started yet! Give back his sword! And Chrom you're out of position!"

Chrom looked up towards Raven. She glanced from him to John. Whatever she saw in the blonde bastard she must have hated as much as him because she grinned and raised her hand.

Chrom returned his attention to his opponent.

"Hey," said John. "Just to be clear, did you really kill that kid?"

Chrom grinned. "I cut off his head."

"Begin!" shouted Raven.

Chrom felt himself tipping to the side.

But he wasn't sure why.

He glanced down at his leg.

His knee was behind him, his entire limb folded like the letter "v". Bone ripped through the front of his pants.

There was a hand on his cheek, it felt so gentle, for an instant, then it was accelerating his falling motion by a factor of ten.

His jaw hit the ground first.

His aura flared. It didn't stop the dislocation, or his teeth from escaping, or the fractures, or the force with which he bit his tongue.

Chrom looked at John through blurred vision. More specifically, he looked at his eyes.

The mellowness and resignation were gone—and still there was no passion either.

Only frigidity. A lack of respect for him so stark and so apparent that it sent a terrifying shivering sensation up and down his spine.

They weren't the eyes of man who loved to kill. Or a man afflicted with hatred.

There was no anger. No murderous intent. No all-consuming rage.

John's eyes had one message and one message only.

And Chrom wasn't sure how he had missed it up until now... Because it was a dozen times more terrifying than anything he had ever seen in another opponent.

As Chrom's physical brain struggled to understand how he had become so injured in spite of his healthy aura his mind was already connecting the dots.

John's eyes...

They were the eyes of a man who had put down a thousand Chroms before...

And would put down a thousand more before he was done...

And Chrom...

Chrom was just a tiny, insignificant, red "x" in the middle of that long list.

John crouched low. He stared at him for a few seconds. No words were exchanged. Not by either of them.

What was there to say?

John stood. He grabbed Chrom's sword, lifting it easily.

Chrom tried to scream. He tried to shout. But his jaw was broken and his mouth flooded with blood.

Where were the others? Where were his boys? Where were the men who respected him?

Why wasn't the crowd shouting to stop this? Wasn't he their favorite? Wasn't he their god?

John raised his sword.

The last thing Chrom saw was those eyes. Eyes like slices of sky.

*l*l*

Jaune watched Chrom faint.

Yeah, no.

He rested Chrom's annoyingly large and ridiculously unwieldy weapon on his shoulder.

Like hell he was letting this insect sleep through his own execution.

What was it Chrom had said?

Was it... _"Save the best for last?"_

Yeah, he'd take care of him later.

 **Yo, if you liked it drop a review. Maybe that'll make up for the 9 hours of sleep I missed out on finishing this.**

 **Don't Forget to check out my new fic the Navigator. Especially if this one's too dark for you. I'm not an angst driven person or anything. I just like to explore different highs and lows I can give readers. This one's, admittedly, a little on the extreme side.**

 **My others aren't.**

 **Peace**

 **-Vronsurd**


	6. A Curious Case of Causality

**Yo, so I know this is late. My bad. Things have been crazy for me and will probably continue to be for at least another week. I should be able to get back onto some semblance of a schedule after that—I swear!**

 **Will Guitar Huntsman be on time this week?**

 **Almost certainly not.**

 **Sorry.**

 **Quick theory before I answer a question about Raven's powers (sort of answer it at least). I don't know how people feel about this nor have I seen much discussion of this on RWBY forums or anything (NO THIS ISN'T A SPOILER FOR SEASON 5)**

 **You guys think Glynda is a maiden?**

 **Bear with this theory of mine. Aside from the Schnees Glynda is the only other character we've seen in the series use Glyphs and all kinds of elemental attacks. In her battle with Cinder in episode 1 she shoots ice, causes a localized storm, all kinds of maiden-y things.**

 **Now, she could just be using dust, but you'll notice, unlike Weiss's rapier, Glynda's crop doesn't have a lot of room for dust compartments. And we certainly don't see her throwing around crystals or anything...**

 **It would also explain why Ozpin decided to put the Fall maiden's powers in Pyrrha, not Glynda. Sure, there could be some other rules about age or….I don't know, virginity, or something. But it would make a hell of a lot of sense if Glynda was already the Spring Maiden.**

 **Also, if Ozpin's just handing out magical powers left and right (Season 5 reference) I'd be kind of shocked if the woman who seems most loyal and closely linked with him didn't get something.**

 **All of this to say, when I was outlining this story I was considering writing Glynda as one of the maidens. But, in the end, I didn't think the evidence was really all there. It makes sense to me. But it still begs some questions,**

 **Like…**

 **Where the hell was Glynda during the fall of Beacon?**

 **Why wasn't she the one guarding Amber?**

 **Why didn't she beat Cinder like a drum?**

 **And, of course, where is she now?**

 **So…**

 **Thoughts?**

 **Also, I've been asked about Raven's powers. Now, we don't know _exactly_ how Raven's semblance works. There was some concern that the way I've described Raven's powers are too OP, such that she could literally slice people up with her portals.**

 **Now, I guess that's possible since RT hasn't told us how her powers work but here's how I figured they would function when I outlined this story this past August.**

 **I figured she must be able to cast portals to specific people—how else could she have saved Yang on a moving train? I was happy to get some confirmation of that this season. That was great.**

 **But I also assumed she could cast portals to places she had been too before.**

 **I did not—however—assume she was a master of space and time.**

 **What do I mean by that?**

 **Well, I have a bit of a physics and computer engineering background so I thought through this in a relativistic manner—if that's not your cup of tea you may find this explanation a bit droll.**

 **First off, Raven's portals are—essentially "smart." They follow a very specific set of rules to prevent Raven from killing herself. Because Raven's portals can take her directly to people and not just places they must adjust to their surroundings.**

 **For example, the spatial coordinates of the portal on the train was relative to the train—not Remnant itself—otherwise the train would have left the portal behind before Raven even stepped through. So whatever "object" Raven places the portal upon becomes the fixed point for the portal.**

 **Additionally, since the portals open directly to people Raven "cares" about, it might be a bother for them to accidentally open inside of a person—although if it's relative to the person, and thus moves with them, the portal itself wouldn't be the endangering factor. People attempting to pass through it would be.**

 **Overall I think the portals must be relative to some physical object, and are designed to open in unoccupied space, Otherwise Raven would kill people all the time when her portal opens to a loved one in an unknown space.**

 **All of that said, the main danger from Raven's portals, as I have written them, is them being used for sneaky attacks, and them being closed when something or someone is only halfway through.**

 **Not her slicing people into pieces with her mind.**

 **That would just make her hella O.P.**

 **Now that I've got that stuff out of the way...**

The Shield of Vale Chapter 6

 **A Curious Case of Causality**

 _Jaune watched the sun set in the distance. The sky was alight in gradients of red, orange, and yellow. A few clouds obstructed the view, but they could do little to hold back the sky's radiance._

 _What had he thought of sunsets years ago? Back before all the bloodshed and loss and fighting? Had he thought them beautiful for beauties sake? What had he seen in them?_

 _Now, they only reminded him of a battlefield. One set alight by a Dragon's fire._

 _It cast that same orangish glow over everything. It released that same familiar heat. It had that same nightmarish tint, that fire took on when it was lapping up blood and iron._

 _It was—_

 _"Do you think she sleeps?" asked Ruby, breaking the silence that had developed between the three of them._

 _Jaune blinked, looking away from the horizon. "What?"_

 _"Salem," continued Ruby. "What do you think she does at night? Think she just cackles at the moon or something?"_

 _Huh. Leave it to Ruby to ask the weirdest questions._

 _"What leads you to the conclusion that she cackles at all Ruby?" asked Weiss._

 _"We've heard her cackle before," said Ruby._

 _"We have not," said Weiss._

 _Ruby replied in a singsong voice. "Yes, we have."_

 _Weiss looked up, no doubt sorting through her memories. "No…no we haven't."_

 _"She cackled right before she brought out those giant black tendrils. You remember, don't you Jaune?"_

 _Jaune thought about their last battle against the Queen of the Grimm. "I don't remember her bringing them out. One moment she didn't have them and then the next, she did."_

 _Weiss and Ruby stared at him for a moment. Then Ruby drove a fist into her open palm. "That's right, first thing she did with those tendrils was smack you through a wall or three."_

 _"Is that what happened?" repeated Jaune._

 _"It is a shame you don't remember. It was quite a spectacle, watching her miasma coalesce into appendages." Weiss sighed. "If only there was a Grimm to study with similar abilities. The data we could gleam from it would be invaluable during our strategy sessions."_

 _Jaune snorted at the statement. "Considering Salem can turn darkness into a gas, and then shove it into the lungs of everyone nearby, killing hundreds of people at once, I think we should be grateful there aren't a bunch of Grimm running around with that ability."_

 _"Yes, well, obviously, I wasn't implying that I desired for there to be a Grimm with Salem's specific level of miasmic control. Rather, I—"_

 _Ruby interrupted the ex-heiress. "You guys are getting distracted. My point was she cackled before she walloped Jaune."_

 _"I'd hardly call that a cackle Ruby," said Weiss, ever the stickler for accurate language. "Perhaps... a chuckle?"_

 _Ruby blanched. "What?"_

 _"I recall the event to which you are referring. And Salem did not cackle. She laughed. But it was too short and too subdued to be described as a cackle. In fact, I would go so far as to say she snickered—and a snicker hardly qualifies as a laugh at all. It could more accurately be described as an audible smile, could it not?"_

 _Ruby was silent for a moment, perhaps considering the validity of Weiss's statement. Or, perhaps, considering the absurdity of Weiss's distinction. Finally, she spoke. "You're lucky I like you so much Weiss."_

 _"And you are lucky to have someone around to improve the inaccuracies in your speech. Honestly, sometimes you say the most incomprehensible things."_

 _Ruby vanished from Jaune's side, reappearing directly in front of Weiss, keeping pace but walking backwards. She grinned viciously at her lover. "Did you just call my speech 'inaccurate' Weiss? Them be fighting words Schnee!"_

 _"Bring it cretin." replied Weiss, returning Ruby's smile._

 _"Oh I—" began Ruby._

 _Jaune cut her off. "Could you guys save it for the bedroom? We'll be camping out for at least two more days. The three of us. No point in getting yourselves all hot and bothered."_

 _Ruby's face reddened, just a bit. But Jaune noticed._

 _"I was talking about a real fight!" she protested._

 _Jaune didn't miss a beat. "I've seen how your 'real fights' turn out Rose." He faked a shudder from the, not all that unpleasant, memory. "I don't ever want to see that much pale ever again."_

 _Even Weiss colored a bit at the jab._

 _Ruby's voice dropped a decibel as she muttered, "I still think you should have to get naked in front of me to make up for that."_

 _"And that thought still makes no sense—and makes me grow increasingly dubious of your claim that you're a lesbian."_

 _"I am! But I'm also an artist. I can appreciate ever—"_

 _"In what fathomable way are you an artist?" interjected Weiss._

 _The two women devolved into further argument. Jaune half-listened as they continued. Weiss thoroughly listed every possible piece of evidence for her partner's lack of artistic vision. Ruby claimed the battlefield was her canvas and her baby was the paintbrush. For a moment it seemed as if Weiss would claim acts of wartime violence could hardly be considered art—but instead she decided to instead turn the argument into a competition—after all, her feats on the battlefield with her "elegant" weapon were more refined and aesthetically pleasing._

 _Jaune listened to it all with a morose sort of pleasure. He often wondered this when he watched Ruby and Weiss argue, laugh, love, and support one another._

 _Is this what he would have had if he hadn't failed Pyrrha? Would she have become his other half? His pillar?_

 _It was a pointless line of thought now. Pyrrha was gone. So were Ren and Nora. And the idea of taking on another partner... a fourth into this group...?_

 _Someone for himself..._

 _Well, the idea made him a little sick._

 _He couldn't afford to fail another person. Not again. War was war. You couldn't save everyone. But a partner...? That was a person you saved no matter what._

 _He wasn't sure if he could handle that sort of burden anymore. Teammates were hard enough._

 _He glanced at the two short bickering women._

 _He would gladly die for these two._

 _Gladly._

 _He didn't fear death. He was well past those types of concerns._

 _He feared not being in time to give up his life for someone he cared for._

 _He feared that he wouldn't be fast enough. That he, through some strange twist of fate, like always, would be the last man standing._

 _But with Ruby and Weiss, that fear wasn't crippling. And that was for one reason. And one reason only._

 _They were strong._

 _They were ridiculously strong._

 _He didn't need to protect Ruby or Weiss. They could take care of themselves. Anything that came their way that the two of them combined couldn't deal with?_

 _Like hell he was going to stop it._

 _Was there anyone else in all Remnant about which he could say the same? Anyone who was still alive?_

 _Glynda Goodwitch came to mind. But she was just about it._

 _Goddammit..._

 _Was everyone else dead?_

 _No._

 _Raven was still around. He sure as hell wouldn't feel any need to protect her._

 _There was Cardin too—but he was weak. Not pathetically so. He was probably a bit above the average huntsman—but he certainly wasn't strong enough to fight on Raven's level, or anyone else on team WRJ for that matter._

 _Jaune sighed, returning his attention to Ruby and Weiss. Weiss was in the midst of explaining how the act of constructing a glyph was, in and of itself, a form of artistic expression._

 _Jaune waited for a short lull in their conversation before interjecting, "I think she sleeps."_

 _Both girls turned to him._

 _"What?" asked Ruby._

 _"Salem," continued Jaune. "I think she sleeps."_

 _Ruby required a moment to remember that she had, in fact, asked that question a short while ago._

 _Weiss, in the meantime, continued the conversation. "And what leads you to that conclusion Jaune?"_

 _Jaune scratched his stubble laden cheeks. "It's just...every time we talk about her like she's not human—like we can't possibly understand why she does what she does...well, I don't know...Isn't she angry? Isn't she hateful? Doesn't she want something bigger than herself? Aren't those all...human desires?"_

 _Weiss considered his questions for a moment. "Yes, I suppose they are. However, there is no evidence that she experiences those desires the same way we do."_

 _"She hates humanity. So, she wants to kill it. Don't we all want to kill what we hate? On some level? She strikes me as pretty much the same."_

 _"Well..." Weiss trailed off._

 _Ruby spoke next. "So why does that make you think she sleeps?"_

 _"Well..." Jaune continued to watch the horizon. The sun had almost disappeared. "...you can't hate all the time, can you? It just becomes meaningless if there's nothing else to contrast it with. And when you're the living embodiment of hatred, the only time you're not hating is probably when you're asleep right?"_

 _"Are you saying sleeping in between makes the hatred sweeter for her when she's awake?" asked Weiss._

 _Jaune snapped and pointed at her. "Exactly."_

 _Weiss considered his explanation quietly for a moment. Eventually she said, "Interesting."_

 _"What!?" cried Ruby. "That's it!?"_

 _Jaune and Weiss shared a confused glance._

 _"What's it?"_

 _"That's all you have to say Weiss? Interesting? Just a second ago you were screeching about how we've never seen Salem cackle—just snicker—and now you're just accepting that she sleeps because Jaune said so!?"_

 _"Jaune made a philosophical statement on the nature of the human experience!"_

 _Was that what he had done?_

 _Weiss's voice grew a bit icier. "And who was screeching?"_

 _Ruby ignored Weiss's question in favor of her claim concerning Jaune. "Jaune's not smart enough to make philosophical statements on the nature of human experience!"_

 _Ah. Good to know Ruby thought he was a brain-dead idiot._

 _"Just because you would not expect it of him—and, indeed, I would not—doesn't mean Jaune is incapable of making intelligent points."_

 _Jaune withheld on thanking Weiss for her support, since he wasn't so sure he had very much of it._

 _"So, you agree with him?" questioned Ruby._

 _"Absolutely not," replied Weiss. "It's sophistry, pure and simple. All of it. Why should the queen of Grimm experience hatred or sleep cycles as we do? Why should she need a break from 'feeling'? Even the argument that we humans rely on sleep as an emotional reset is questionable—to say that doing so is the primary reason for sleep? That's ridiculous."_

 _Ah, it was a good thing that he had held off on thanking her._

 _"But you didn't go out of your way to correct him!"_

 _"One should not correct other's ideological missteps—no matter how absurd. Well, if said ideologies do not endanger other people. As long as your misplaced ideology is not a threat to the common good than you should absolutely be free to believe. Yours though, Ruby, was not an error in belief but an error in language—which, for the sake of societal clarity, I could not ignore."_

 _"Ugh..." Ruby groaned. "Not societal clarity again. If you like societal clarity so much why don't you marry it?"_

 _"Maybe if I asked, **it** would actually say yes," said Weiss icily._

 _"Hey!" cried Ruby. "I said yes! I just think we should wait until after we beat Salem!"_

 _"You mean, potentially, never."_

 _"Weiss…"_

 _Jaune listened as the two women's discussion gradually grew more serious._

 _He resisted the urge to chip in. Not that Ruby or Weiss would resent him for it—they were all too close for unnecessary social mechanisms like personal boundaries._

 _It was just better for the group that he didn't pick a side._

 _The power dynamics in the trio were fluid._

 _They were fine that way._

 _WRJ didn't need a leader. They knew each other's strengths and weakness, as warriors, leaders, and people well enough to know when it was time for each of them to take the reins._

 _If it was time to hold a wall or lead soldiers or civilians, that was Jaune's domain._

 _When it was time to strategize or plan or predict Weiss would take control._

 _And when it came down to pushing through what seemed to be insurmountable obstacles only The Crimson Reaper could get them through._

 _There was no conversation. No conflict. They would recognize the kind of situation they were in and immediately give or accept orders._

 _Their ability to seamlessly slip into leading and following roles was part of why they were so strong._

 _It was part of why they never lost._

 _Well…_

 _Almost never lost._

 _With no clearly defined leader and just three of them, it was important that they avoid two-on-one conflicts as often as possible. One of them had to be able to mediate._

 _Although, if he were to weigh in on the conversation he would land firmly on Weiss's side. They'd fought for Remnant since they were schoolchildren. His friends deserved every ounce of happiness they could grasp._

 _He was the only one who had to keep fighting._

 _He was the only one who didn't deserve better than the hand fate had dealt him._

 _Jaune focused on the steady crunch of their boots as they walked along the path. Weiss and Ruby's conversation grew more subdued as they proceeded._

 _It would be night soon and the forest ahead of them was finally starting to look closer._

 _They'd be within teleportation range of their destination soon. The crunch of their boots_

 _The sun finally disappeared beyond the horizon. Taking with it that sickly orange glow. Well, most of it. Jaune squinted at the reddish hue to the right of the forest they were approaching. Now that the sun wasn't so blinding he could just make out a thick column of smoke in the fading light._

 _"Hey, do you guys see that?"_

 _Weiss and Ruby quieted, following his gaze._

 _"That's not good," muttered Weiss._

 _No. No it wasn't._

 _Ruby slid her pack off her shoulder and fished out a pair of binoculars. After a moment she said, "definitely a big fire. I can't tell if the entire village is burning. Could just be an…unusually large bonfire."_

 _"Only one reason to build a fire that big," said Jaune._

 _"Grimm attack," finished Weiss with a sigh. "Should we detour?"_

 _The trio exchanged several looks._

 _They were huntsmen and huntresses; their job was to protect people from Grimm. Sure, they were technically protecting people by hunting the legendary Grimm that had, supposedly, appeared in this forest. But there was no telling when that Grimm would deal some serious damage to humanity. Meanwhile, if that village was experiencing an incursion..._

 _There was an immediate threat to human life._

 _And then there was also the chance that the Grimm they were hunting was at that village—perhaps that would explain why the village was alight._

 _Jaune motioned for Ruby to hand him her binoculars. Ruby did so without complaint._

 _They didn't give him that much more detail. Just a better idea that it was, in fact, a village glowing in the distance. He turned towards the forest._

 _Oum._

 _That was easily thirty or forty miles out of their way._

 _Weiss could make up for wasted time with her teleportation glyphs but the more mass she moved and the further the distance she propelled said mass, the more energy she expended. The last thing they needed was a fight again some kind of never-before-seen god-tier Grimm with Weiss running on a quarter tank._

 _On the flip side, there were people out there. People who were, potentially, in trouble._

 _Who could ignore that and still call himself a huntsman?_

 _Not Jaune Arc. That was for sure._

 _The mission came first, obviously. But, sometimes, there was wiggle room._

 _"Do the two of you think you can handle whatever this new Grimm is?"_

 _"Has there ever been a Grimm the two of us couldn't handle?" replied Ruby with a deserved confidence._

 _"Then do you think I could go check on that village...? While you guys finish the mission?"_

 _He turned towards Weiss, the usual voice of reason when it came to plans, decisions, and audibles._

 _She appeared contemplative, but not opposed._

 _"Wouldn't it make more sense for I or Ruby to investigate the village? Either of us could get there considerably faster than you."_

 _Jaune's stomach turned at the suggestion._

 _He didn't mind going at it alone. He really didn't. He was practically built for it at this point. But the idea of Weiss or Ruby facing off against some unknown foe without each other—no matter how powerful they were individually..._

 _Something about the thought made him ill._

 _"Sure. But we're dealing with an unknown with that Grimm. Ruby's semblance and yours complement each other perfectly. Hell, if it's got wings I wouldn't even be all that much help bringing it down. The village could be nothing. It's best if you two stay together."_

 _Ruby and Weiss exchanged a look._

 _A knowing look._

 _"You aren't…trying to…protect us again, are you?" asked Weiss._

 _Jaune shook his head vigorously. That was one conversation he did not want to have._

 _Not again._

 _"Nothing like that. It just makes the most sense."_

 _"Really…?" pressured Weiss, eyes narrow._

 _"I'm not trying to take all the risk Weiss. I know you and Ruby are more than capable of handling this on your own. Hell, I know you're both way stronger than me…"_

 _"Don't be patronizing Jaune," cut in Weiss. "Neither Ruby, nor I, will appreciate it."_

 _Jaune was about to defend himself but Ruby beat him to it. "I don't think he's being patronizing Weiss. I think, if there is an incursion happening in that village. He just really wants to be the one to save those people."_

 _Weiss fixed Jaune with a critical stare._

 _Jaune met her gaze unflinchingly._

 _Was Ruby right?_

 _Partially._

 _He did want to help those people._

 _He also didn't want to split Ruby and Weiss up._

 _If he had to say which was more important to him, obviously it would be his teammates…_

 _But he still cared about the people too._

 _"Is that how it is?"_

 _"You know it is."_

 _Weiss exhaled. She glanced from their destination to the glowing village._

 _"Okay," she didn't sound particularly happy about the concession. "Let's establish where we will meet up."_

*l*l*

Vernal squinted at John.

The man was an oddity, to say the least.

What about him had garnered her master's interest? He was a huntsman, sure. And he looked as if he was at least decently skilled.

But was that it?

It couldn't be.

Could it?

Vernal was not sure.

Listening to him exchange words with Raven—as if he was her equal…

And listening to Raven respond in kind…

As if she thought the same…

Well, Vernal wasn't sure what she should think of it.

What did this guy possess that had her master's eyes locked on him, like a thief before a diamond necklace? Or a dog before a steak?

Was it that scar? It certainly made him look battle hardened. And Raven liked her men with an iron streak. But scarred men stood before Vernal's mistress every day. Some lived, and some died.

Vernal had never seen Raven so much as bat an eye when they stood. Or shed a tear when they fell.

Chrom was a champion. He was a killer. He was without pity and without weakness. Wasn't that everything Raven claimed to like in a person?

And yet…

When Vernal had asked Raven, a while back, how she liked the hulking man. If she considered him to be worthy of attention…

The bandit-leader had shrugged, non-committal. She explained that the last man who had held her attention, truly held her attention—and perhaps even her affection—hadn't been rippling with needless bulk… but he could still have beaten Chrom to a bloody pulp—without so much as a second thought.

And he would have done so with his bare fists.

Vernal wasn't sure how to take that sentiment. Was the simplest interpretation the best here? Did Raven just prefer leaner men? It was a cheap solution but not without some merit.

Everyone had their…

She glanced at Ravens sleek profile. Her pale cheeks. Her long dark hair. Her muscular…

Preferences.

Everyone had their preferences.

But could this man's shape—solid but agile—really be all there was to it? Shouldn't there be something more? Something beneath the surface?

Just what had Raven seen in this blond interloper? What had she latched on to?

Vernal watched Chrom approach him.

The giant made John look like a child in comparison. John wasn't short, not by any stretch of the imagination. Chrom was just _that_ large. The man could make just about anyone look vertically challenged.

For some reason, John stood his ground, unflinching as the behemoth approached.

That was a mistake.

Vernal shook her head.

It was a mistake he probably would not even live to regret. Just like every other man who had allowed Chrom to so effortlessly close the distance.

Now wasn't the time for bravado or chest puffing. John didn't want to show fear to his opponents—all fifty of them—fair enough. But leaving himself in the brute's range…?

Vernal had seen ancient elemental powers at work.

She sat next to a one-woman army—an actual force of nature, so to speak.

Power incarnate.

Hey master could put down Chrom without breaking a sweat.

All of this being true, Raven _still_ would never allow herself to sit in Chrom's melee range—to do so was an act of idiocy.

A punch from one of those trunks was probably enough to knock out an Ursa. She had no interest in finding out what it would do to her neck.

And that sword!

Aura wouldn't do shit stopping a blade that was born to cleave boulders.

Vernal watched the gamemaster squawk at the contenders, telling Chrom to get back in his place, no doubt. Chrom ignored him, as he always did. The man only listened to power and violence, neither of which the gamemaster seemed able or willing to wield against him.

Vernal hated that.

The gamemaster wasn't Raven, sure. But he was an extension of Raven's authority in the ring. To disrespect him was to disrespect Raven.

At least, that was how she felt. Raven seemed to disagree. Or not care. Either was plausible.

"Raven." She waited until she had her leader's attention. "Should I tell Chrom to back off?"

"Hm." Raven hummed, turning back to the arena. "John doesn't seem to be uncomfortable with how close Chrom is. Why should we be?"

Vernal turned back towards the fight. Chrom stepped to the side, yelling something to the men behind him. A few seconds later John's broken sword flew from his hand, whistling across the battlefield. "They just stole his broken sword _before_ the fight started."

"John's not complaining," replied Raven with a wide grin.

The longer the bandit-leader watched John's nonaction the more excited she seemed to grow. Vernal glanced from Raven to John and back again. What was it? What was it that she was seeing that Vernal wasn't?

Raven stood, raising her hand, grin stretched across her face.

Was she really going to start the match like this?

Vernal looked across the arena, it was half full. Fifty men didn't sound like that many—until you saw them in a condensed area, weapons drawn. And Chrom…

Chrom was five men by himself.

She focused her attention on John. No armor. No weapon. Just boots, jeans, and a hoodie. John had better have one hell of a powerful semblance, otherwise…

Well, even with a strong semblance. He'd need some maiden level bullshit to get out of this. There was no way this was going to end with—

"Begin!"

Fast.

Too fast.

John's upper body didn't move.

Vernal would have missed it if she hadn't already been watching him so closely.

It brought back a memory. A memory of a lesson she had received from Raven a few years past. How she should never strike _at_ an enemy, but _through_ , always _through_.

That was precisely what John did. He didn't kick _at_ Chrom's knee. He didn't kick Chrom _in_ the knee.

His boot traveled straight through the joint, caving the leg with a stomach-turning 'crack!' Vernal wasn't sure if she had actually heard or if her brain had simply filtered in the only appropriate noise for such a brutal injury.

She wondered what her face looked like at that very moment.

Surely, she was surprised.

Surely, that showed.

But could it compare to the expression Chrom wore as he toppled? Could it compared to the way his eyes widened as they fell on the contorted leg beneath him? The one that could no longer support his gargantuan frame?

Probably not.

John's hand slipped up to Chrom's cheek, like a wife testing the warmth of her returning soldier.

And then it ceased to be anything like that.

John drove Chrom's head towards the ground as if he was spiking a ball—with the force of a semi-truck.

When Chrom's cheek met earth, his nose, his teeth, his jaw…

They just…

They just…broke.

Vernal winced at the sheer violence of it all. She wanted to turn and look at Raven, to see what kind of face she was wearing…

But she couldn't.

She couldn't pull her eyes off what was happening in the arena.

John straightened, staring at Chrom for a moment.

Then he crouched. Perhaps for a closer look?

Vernal wondered what words were being exchanged. Or, at least, she wondered what John was saying. It was a safe bet that Chrom wouldn't be doing much talking out of that mangled mouth.

John stood, grabbing the blade that Chrom had dropped shortly after John destroyed his leg. He lifted it easily. That wasn't to say he looked particular enthused about the instrument's absurd weight, length, or thickness. But he didn't look all that troubled by it either.

"What have I always told you is the most important ability for a warrior Vernal?" asked Raven.

Vernal didn't look away from the spectacle. John raised Chrom's sword. Chrom, wriggled, perhaps trying to escape? Perhaps his body was wracking with sobs?

Then he went still, suspiciously so.

Had he fainted? Had the great Chrom fainted in the face of death?

A puddle began to grow beneath Chrom's waist and stomach.

Vernal held back a retch. That wasn't blood.

"The ability to read your opponent. To know what you're going up against before you go up against it."

"Exactly," said Raven. "Chrom misread."

Vernal watched John release, what could only have been, a huff of annoyance.

Rather than take Chrom's head, as it had seemed he intended a few seconds ago, John rested the giant sword on his shoulder and turned towards the rest of his foes. The mob had shifted backwards, drawing closer together.

Were they scared?

All of them?

Of one man?

Vernal returned her attention to John. A man who, a few short minutes ago, she had assumed was about to get destroyed.

Then she glanced at Chrom.

Could that have just as easily been her?

She couldn't imagine a situation where she'd feel the need to assert her dominance over an opponent by standing chest to chest against them. She had that in her favor.

But as to whether she would have properly estimated her foe…

She turned back to John.

Chrom wasn't the only one who had misread this guy.

*l*l*

 _It was beginning to rain._

 _Jaune noted the fact without so much as twitching towards shelter. His eyes were riveted on the girl before him._

 _She was young._

 _Probably no older than Cece was before he left home._

 _She had long brown hair, stretching down to her midback. And she had pale skin, dotted with freckles._

 _Her eyes were wide. Her mouth was open._

 _And her throat was slit._

 _She was the first and only body he had found._

 _The, no doubt, once-upon-a-time thriving village had been ransacked. Doors were torn off hinges. Ash floated in the wind. Shattered glass lay scattered across stone roads. There were blood stains on cobbled streets and a few other obvious signs of a fruitless struggle that had ended with the civvies' obliteration._

 _At least, that's what Jaune assumed had happened._

 _The question remained, though; why had he found only one body?_

 _Beside the child's body, covered in crimson, was a doll. Jaune recognized it as the mass-produced shit Aren had loved growing up. What were they called? Lettuce-Latch dolls? Radish-Ranch? Whatever they were called, they hadn't lasted long in the Arc household. Between Sage playing surgeon with them, and Crystal including them in her sadistic pranks, and Jaune, occasionally—and accidentally—destroying them. Their father was constantly appeasing a sobbing daughter by running to the local toy-store and purchasing a new doll._

 _Jaune picked up the soiled doll. The blood was dry but not old. It couldn't have been more than a few hours since it was spilled. The doll was missing one of her eyes. A rain drop splashed off the doll's good eye. It ran down the translucent plastic like a tear drop._

 _He looked from the doll to its owner._

 _The girl with glassed over eyes._

 _There was something about a slit throat that was worse than a mangled body._

 _The effects of a Grimm attack were horrible. They were senseless. They were heart-wrenching._

 _But they were also caused by Grimm. Mindless monsters driven by an endless supply of hatred and a taste for human flesh._

 _There was no point in getting angry about a Grimm attack. There was no meaning in feeding that rage. The Grimm were nothing less than what they were meant to be, perfectly fulfilling their role in the world—just like any other predatorial force of nature._

 _A slit throat meant this was done by humans._

 _Cold, callous, uncaring, murderous humans._

 _People weren't Grimm. They weren't compelled to violence. They weren't born to destroy. They made a choice. They made a choice every goddamn day._

 _Jaune hated the ones who chose to be monsters._

 _He glanced down the road. There were suitcases and luggage strewn about the street. Articles of clothing and various other personal belongings were strewn alongside them._

 _Jaune knew what that meant._

 _These people had been leaving. The Grimm attacks had probably become too frequent. There weren't enough huntsman or huntresses to keep them safe._

 _So, they had been preparing to make the treacherous journey to Vale proper. How close had they come to leaving? To getting to safety? Two days? Maybe one?_

 _Maybe they'd been leaving today. Before they were attacked. That would explain all the luggage spread across the streets and the sidewalks._

 _Jaune looked to his right. There was an orange glow emanating from that side of town. Probably just some buildings the bandits had left to burn. Jaune squeezed a fist tight, so tight one of his short fingernails cut into his skin._

 _He couldn't remember the last time he had been this angry._

 _Had he been fighting Salem? Or maybe Cinder?_

 _Or maybe he'd just been having a conversation with Raven._

 _Those always left him pretty furious._

 _Jaune heard footsteps and voices, approaching from the other side of the house he stood in front of._

 _The bandits? Were they still here? Jaune spared one last look at the dead girl, set the doll back down beside her, and then looked for a place to hide._

 _The home before him included a porch, with a walled partition. It would work well enough._

 _Jaune could make out what was being said a moment later. There were two of them. Both were male. One was a fair bit higher than the other._

 _"I don't understand why we've got to do this. We cleared out the town. Why do we need to burn the bodies?" asked the deeper voice._

 _"It's to keep the Grimm from gathering," the higher one responded._

 _"I thought Grimm gathered from negativity. Not dead bodies. These people're dead. No way for them to be negative."_

 _"Maybe. But you want to be the one to tell our leader that? Besides. W-what if the Grimm do like corpses? Better safe than dead…right?"_

 _"You would say that Thumper. It's bullshit. All I'm saying."_

 _Two men came into view. Jaune peered at them from between the crisscrossing boards of his hiding spot. The two men were carrying a body, a man from the looks of it. One gripped his arms and the other his legs. The man's stomach sagged downwards, a smattering of organs drooped lazily from a gaping wound._

 _A swath of blood followed behind the waddling pair, left from the corpse's entrails dragging along the ground._

 _"At least this is the last one," said Thumper._

 _"Not even. Look." The deeper voice thrust his chin towards the dead girl._

 _Thumper turned. "Shit. I don't want to make another trip."_

 _"Me neither."_

 _Thumper glanced from the girl to the man and back again. "She looks light. Maybe we can put her on top of this asshole…like a hammock?"_

 _"How are we gonna get her on?" returned the other._

 _Thumper exhaled, clearly irritated by the question. "We'll set the guy down and then put her on top. Come on. I want to start drinking. I hear the grog is decent today."_

 _The two men shuffled towards the girl._

 _"Can't believe you like that shit."_

 _"You drink it too."_

 _"Doesn't mean I like it."_

 _They were bandits. Jaune was sure of that. They had that look about them._

 _Skeevy…_

 _Dishonest…_

 _Murderously self-absorbed._

 _Bandits._

 _And it sounded like there were more of them. A lot more._

 _Jaune reached for Crocea Mors. They were still here. The monsters. The savages._

 _The animals who had done this._

 _From the sound of it, there was no one here to save. The bandits had killed everyone._

 _There was no way they'd taken many prisoners._

 _There was no point to taking prisoners these days—not unless you planned to head straight back to the safety of the city. The Grimm were too numerous to keep people chained up while traveling. Their negativity would attract too much Grimm attention. Still, some bandits just looted a village dry. The one's that slaughtered every human being they ran into had a special place in Jaune's heart._

 _A place of immense anger._

 _Jaune exhaled a few times, attempting to quell that raging sensation._

 _Anger only helped in a fight when it burned cold. When it added to the drive, but didn't detract from the reason. He needed to work on that. He'd never been an angry person before. But he seemed to be becoming one._

 _Surprisingly, he was fine with that. After all, there was so much in this goddamn world to be angry at. It felt like there was a new atrocity every day. Every. Single. Freakin'. Day._

 _As long as he could wield it. As long as he could control it._

 _There was no need for his foes to know he was angry until the very moment he put them down._

 _He watched the two men set down the corpse they were carrying. They heaped the girl atop him as if she were no more than a sack of potatoes._

 _Exhale. Calm._

 _Angry._

 _But cold._

 _Jaune waited for them to pick up the man again—because why wouldn't he wait until their hands were full?_

 _Then he dashed from cover. He moved quiet as the night. He didn't draw Crocea Mors until he was already upon them. The deep voiced one spotted him. Crocea's hilt snapped into his chin before he could utter a warning. The man had aura, which probably saved his jaw from shattering. But it didn't stop his head from flying backwards._

 _He fell to the ground in an unresponsive heap._

 _Jaune whirled on the second man, Thumper, placing his sword's point against the man's throat. Thumper required a moment to realize he was under attack. But when he did, he dropped the corpse with a feminine squeal._

 _"Wha—"_

 _Jaune interrupted him. He wasn't in the mood for answering questions. "Where are the rest of you?"_

 _Thumper took several steps back. Jaune followed him, keeping his weapon at his throat. "The rest of us? I don't know what you're talking about. I live here!"_

 _Jaune pushed Crocea toward that exposed throat. If it weren't for aura and the bandit's quick backpedaling instincts Jaune's blade would have skewered him. "Do I look like I'm in the mood for bullshit?"_

 _Thumper's eyes widened as he took in Jaune's expression._

 _Jaune wasn't sure what the scum was seeing. But he imagined it was suitably terrifying. After all…_

 _He wasn't in a particularly good mood._

 _"Okay, I don't live here." Thumper held up open hands. "But I swear it's not what it looks like."_

 _"Why?" asked Jaune._

 _"Why?" repeated Thumper, tilting his head to the side._

 _"Why did you kill all these people?"_

 _"Kill what people?" said Thumper, Adam's apple bobbing closer to Crocea Mor's thirsty point. "This town was abandoned when we came here."_

 _"Was it valuables?" asked Jaune, feeling that familiar rage building in his stomach. "Was it food? Or drink? Or dust?"_

 _"I d—"_

 _"Which was it!?" shouted Jaune, not giving him the opportunity to answer._

 _Thumper must have realized his feeble excuses weren't going to afford him an ounce of mercy from his furious assailant, so he made his move._

 _He leapt backwards, extending his palm out towards Jaune. "St—"_

 _His shout was interrupted by the flat of Jaune's sword crashing into the side of his head. Thumper soared a few feet to the left before crashing headfirst onto the ground._

 _Jaune hadn't meant to do that. Not before questioning him. But instinct had leapt in when he'd seen the man leap backwards and extend his palm._

 _Only Oum could say what kind of broken semblance he might have used. Better safe than dead. It wasn't as if he needed a rundown on the bandit's friends._

 _He'd meet them soon enough._

 _And who needed to know their numbers?_

 _If he got curious, he could just count their corpses afterward._

 _Jaune approached the bandit he had just downed. His aura had protected him from the worst of the damage. He was clutching his head though, rolling back and forth on the ground, moaning._

 _Jaune planted a foot on his chest, to keep him still._

 _"Wait I—"_

 _Jaune didn't wait. He brought Crocea Mors down in one swift strike to the neck. He felt the point at which the bandit's remaining aura tried to stop the sword's passage. It absorbed some of his swing's momentum._

 _But not enough to stop the blade from cleaving through his neck._

 _Jaune turned toward the first bandit he had struck. He was unconscious. And would probably stay that way for a bit._

 _Jaune spotted that doll. Still where he left it. Still missing an eye. Still covered in the blood of the little girl who had loved it._

 _Jaune could almost hear it speak to him—although not really, because he wasn't that far gone—not yet._

 _It told him, in no uncertain terms that "unconscious wasn't justice. Dead was."_

 _Jaune approached the man._

 _Wasn't there a time where the thought of killing an unconscious man would have horrified him? At some point he was going to need to sit down and think about what he was becoming._

 _He drew a line across the bandit's throat with the tip of his sword. Blood seeped out of his throat a moment later._

 _At some point he'd really need to think this through._

 _Not today, obviously._

 _There was too much on his plate today._

 _After all, they were more bandits where these guys were headed. They were carrying bodies to a fire. And there was an orange glow and a pillar of smoke over that way. Jaune swiped the blood off Crocea with a quick swipe and returned it to its sheathe._

 _The rain began in earnest. It wasn't torrential, but it was far more than the drizzle that had been falling up to that point._

 _Jaune groaned as his hair got wet. Already the slimy locks were reaching for his eyes._

 _He hated doing this. But it was a necessity. He fished a hairband from his pocket._

 _He pulled back the hair from in front of his face._

 _At least Ruby wasn't here to make fun of him. And Weiss wasn't here to politely hide her snicker._

 _Jaune's hair wasn't long enough for a ponytail or anything like that. So, he had to do it up in a sort of awkward forward-facing topknot. His fingers worked the band with a practiced finesse, more so from the various girls he had assisted throughout his life than the regularity with which he put a band in his own hair._

 _As he fiddled with his hair he proceeded down the sidewalk. Towards the orange glow. As he continued, eyes peeled for new threats, he began to detect a sickly-sweet scent. Like a barbeque, only…different._

 _It wasn't a foreign smell to him. After all, sometimes fire was the only way to clean up a battlefield. But he'd never felt so reluctant to see the source of scent._

 _Not once._

 _He peeked around the corner._

 _There were the rest of the bandits. Probably sixty of them. They were eating, drinking, fighting, singing…all the thing bandits normally did after a big haul._

 _And at the center of it all was a fire, at least twenty-five feet tall, piled high with charring bodies. There was a mental disconnect between the two sights, as if reality had broken down and ceased to function._

 _Dancing, eating, making merry…_

 _Around a pyre made of human bodies? A pyre made of civilians?_

 _A pyre made of civilians they had just killed?_

 _Blood roared in Jaune's ears. A disgust unlike anything he had ever felt flooded his body. And the anger? The anger wasn't cold._

 _It was anything but._

 _Breathe. Exhale. Calm._

 _Breathe… Exhale… Calm._

 _Breathe…_

 _Why couldn't he breathe?_

 _Was his jaw clenched tight?_

 _Was his whole body clenched?_

 _Was he shaking?_

 _That wasn't good. He needed to stay calm._

 _He needed to let his anger burn cold._

 _He needed to…_

 _To…_

 _Jaune caught sight of a massive man. Probably the leader._

 _He had a lengthy metal pole in his hands, fifteen or twenty feet long. And on the end of that pole was, what appeared to be a…_

 _A sausage._

 _A massive sausage._

 _He was roasting hotdogs over children's burning…_

 _Breathe…Exhale…Calm._

 _Scattered around the hulking man were several weapons._

 _They looked like they were mecha-shift._

 _They looked like huntsmen and huntress weapons._

 _They looked like trophies._

 _Breathe…Exhale…Calm._

 _Two men approached from the right side of the camp, holding between them another body, a young woman. She'd been cut from shoulder to hip. Jaune watched the two men swing the woman back and forth, attempting to build momentum, trying to toss the woman into the flames without getting too close to the inferno._

 _The woman didn't quite make it into the blaze. Stopping a few feet short._

 _The massive leader took a few steps back and darted his sausage down, towards the woman's bloody carcass. He lifted the meat after drenching it in her lifeblood._

 _Jaune imagined the sizzling noise as the moisture popped and crackled._

 _Breathe._

 _Exhale._

 _Calm._

 _Calm?_

 _Calm?_

 _Was that really what he wanted? To stay calm?_

 _Right. If he stayed calm. He could strategize. He could outthink his opponents. He could beat them before they even realized he was coming at them…_

 _They'd disappear one by one until they started missing each other. With all the drinking and partying it would take a while. He could whittle down their numbers until there was no one left._

 _All he needed to do was stay calm._

 _Stay logical._

 _And keep that boiling cauldron of anger splashing around in his stomach concealed._

 _Jaune breathed._

 _He exhaled._

 _But fuck staying calm._

 _He broke from his vantage point at a full sprint, heading straight for the bandit leader._

*l*l*

Jaune watched the men, just as they watched him. Forty-nine opponents.

Forty-nine.

Jaune mentally prepared himself to take some bruises.

There was no way he was getting out of this mess unscathed.

But he couldn't die here. If he died fighting these small-fries who would enact the plan? Who would kill Salem?

Who would…

He glanced over his shoulder, at the broken soiled body behind him.

Who would finish squashing that insect?

Jaune took a step forward. A ripple went through the mob as they fidgeted backwards.

They were scared of him.

Good.

He had smashed their idol after all. And he had done so with a casual disregard for his, _supposed_ strength.

They ought to be scared.

Huh.

Something about this situation felt familiar. Something about the thoughts running through his head felt as if…

As if it wasn't the first time he had thought them. He wasn't sure what it was that this all felt so familiar to. He had taken on large groups before. But this sense of familiarity felt deeper than a passing resemblance between events.

It was a near unexplainable sense of déjà vu.

He pushed aside that feeling. He didn't need the distraction.

He took another step forward.

More wary squirming.

Damn.

His shoulder was sore.

Why the hell was this sword so goddamn heavy? It had to be at least a hundred pounds, which would have been annoying enough to grip from the middle. Holding it from the handle was a nightmare for his forearms and wrists. Resting it on his shoulder had alleviated the pressure from his lower arms.

But now his clavicle and trapezoid were complaining.

What the hell did Chrom even do with this massive thing? It didn't matter how strong that gorilla was. There was no way he'd been able to wield this rudimentary sword with any amount of precision. The man was practically asking for a beatdown the moment he'd approached _within Jaune's striking range_ with this atrocity occupying his hands.

What had he expected Jaune to do? Punch him in the abs as he flexed? Even if Jaune _had_ decided to go for a body shot, he would have targeted a kidney…

And he would have _destroyed_ that kidney.

Another step forward.

Still just a muted fearful reaction.

Well…this was…

Obnoxious.

He'd been expecting them to fan out. To surround him. To attack him from all sides.

Instead they just stood in a huddled mass, as far away from him as was physically possible. Between them stretched no-man's land. Thirty or forty feet of empty space.

Jaune could cross it. He could cross it quickly. But was running half-cocked into a throng of enemies ever a good idea? Sure, for him, it might not end in immediate death. But if there was a better way to initiate…

"Hey, who took my sword?"

Jaune wasn't sure what compelled him to speak.

Maybe it was just the sheer annoyance of the weapon he was, at this point, lugging around just for show. Maybe it was the beginning droplets of a plan coagulating in his mind.

He received no response from the mob staring at him.

"I think I heard a name…? Yeah…what was it?"

Jaune genuinely could not recall but he thought it went something like…

"Pumper? Was that your name? Was it Pumper?"

Pumper, whoever that was, appeared to have little interest in answering Jaune's question. "C'mon Pumper. Speak up. Wouldn't you rather fight me wielding a broken sword than with this?" Jaune lifted Chrom's blade off his shoulder and gave the weapon an experimental swing.

To Jaune, having fought opponents that the human eye could barely follow, and being best-friends with a girl that the human eye could not follow whatsoever, the motion of the monstrous blade was irritatingly slow and he hated the way his muscles creaked when he had to bring the weapon to a halt at the end of the motion.

But the men before him didn't see a useless, easily dodged blade moving at subpar speeds. They saw a massive slab of sharpened iron whistling over dry dirt, kicking up a small could as the man who had put down their leader effortlessly wielded his weapon.

Jaune was counting on that.

Raven would have laughed at the speed he was wielding this... _sword_.

The word hardly seemed appropriate. But to a weakling he probably looked totally capable of fighting with this kind of weapon.

"Pumper," he called again. "I really don't like being parted from my sword. How about we make a little trade?"

Still no response.

That wouldn't do. He needed his new friend to reply. He didn't need a lengthy reply. Just one word would do.

Jaune imagined Pumper was somewhere near the back. A man with a semblance that involved shouting the word "steal" and snatching an opponent's weapon from their hand didn't strike him as the sort to brave the frontlines.

Or brave anything for that matter.

But, then again…who was he to judge others—for their semblance of all things? And a semblance that involved stealing? What was he, the pot and the kettle?

"Pumper." Jaune did his best to smile, although he had a feeling it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Either you give me back my sword. Or I'll shove this one…" he held up Chrom's blade. "…well, you know where I'll shove it…don't you?"

"Steal!"

A thrill ran through Jaune when he heard that word. He wasn't sure why. It was something he always experienced before a fight, a wave of pleasure, a sudden drowning in endorphins. Tired as he was. As exhausted as he felt most days. And as much as he had hated it when he'd first set out on the path of a huntsman…

At some point, Jaune Arc had come to love a good fight.

Jaune released Chrom's sword. It flew towards the swearing group, rotating one end over the other. The men swore as they pushed and shoved, attempting to get out of the hulking blades trajectory. There were several furious shouts of Thumper's name.

One of the angrier men was at the front of the group. Rightfully, he was more pissed off than the others. Here he was at the front, holding his…was that a scimitar? Probably, holding his scimitar, and a coward at the back of the group was panicking and endangering his life.

He screamed, "Thumper!" angrily as he narrowly sidestepped the flying blade.

The man's scream died as he realized that Chrom's blade wasn't alone.

When his eyes met Jaune's. The man's lips moved again.

Maybe he wished to give a warning to the others.

Or maybe he was trying to vocalize his surprise at Jaune's sudden appearance.

Or maybe he was just cursing his own rotten luck as his gaze locked with Jaune's and he realized, with some degree of certainty, that he was next.

Whatever he was trying to communicate would go unheard and unknown.

Forty-eight.

The man's jaw met Jaune's fist. It was a perfect hit. The man probably hadn't even had aura. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

Jaune grabbed another man's head, one who had not even notice his presence yet, he tugged the man downwards as his knee rocketed upwards.

Forty-seven.

This one was a bloodier blow, potentially fatal. Something in the man's neck shifted, Jaune felt it.

He didn't dwell on it though. Why should he?

It was just one more clean-takedown before his foes even noticed that he was in their midst.

Could he nab a third?

Jaune managed to latch onto someone's shirt before the group burst like a bubble. Men staggered, stumbled, and flat-out ran in every direction, dispersing like ants under a boot.

The man raised his blade. Jaune closed the distance before he could get any momentum. He swept the man's leg out from under him, eyes peeled for other possible assailants.

Surprisingly, it looked as if he had some breathing room, at least until these morons got their shit together.

Jaune stepped on the man he had taken down. His boot pressed down into the man's throat. There was some aura there. He stomped. He stomped again.

Forty-six.

The aura wilted, as did the man it had failed to protect.

Jaune looked down at the man he had killed—or would kill when his brain ran out of what little oxygen it had left.

He was the same as every man who had ever died. The same as every man who would die.

Someone's son, brother, or friend.

That was normally a depressing thought. Even when Jaune was fighting against the White Fang he had sometimes wondered about the members he was killing. Did they have families? Loved ones? Did they feel so backed into a corner as a species that this was the only option available to them?

Had they once hated the sight of blood as much as he when he was first starting out?

Those were the sorts of questions he often asked himself.

They usually bothered him quite a bit.

They didn't bother Jaune as much when he was dealing with bandit scum. He liked to think that any family members these guys had would be grateful he was cleaning up their trash.

Jaune picked up the man's weapon. It was a machete length blade, although more curved than a machete. It was no Crocea Mors but it was sure as hell better than Chrom's piece-of-junk-weapon.

Sure, he had no idea how long he would be able to hold onto it. But he might as well hang on to it while he could, right?

Besides, maybe Pumper would—no, not Pumper, that guy had shouted Thumper. Right. Thumper. Maybe Thumper would…

Thumper would…

Thumper?

Jaune's stomach clench. His legs trembled. What was this feeling? What was this white-hot magnesium rage racing through veins?

He hadn't felt like this in…

Well, a while.

He had gotten so good at keeping it down. Burning cold, so to speak.

So, what had him so hot now?

Thumper?

 _Thumper?_

There was something there. A memory, perhaps? But Jaune couldn't quite access it. He couldn't recall.

But his body did. His body remembered well.

"We need to attack him together! Together!"

Jaune's eyes locked on the man who was trying to rally the group. A tall man, with a shock of red hair atop his head. He was about twenty feet away. There was one guy in between them. No matter, the obstacle removed himself from Jaune's path the moment he noticed the Arc bursting towards him.

"Come on! W—"

Forty-five.

Jaune's foot plowing into his stomach cut off that impassioned shout. The ginger's feet lifted up off the ground. His body folded like an athlete stretching for his toes as he soared backwards five, ten feet, crashing to the ground and rolling a few feet.

With the rallying cry dealt with…

"Together! Attack him together!"

Someone else was shouting now.

"Form up around Chrom! We'll spread out from there!"

That was a different voice. A louder voice. A more authoritative voice.

A voice these guys might actually listen to.

"He might be a huntsman, but he can't take all of us!"

Did he say more?

The sound of blood rushing through his head drowned out any other orders.

The words running through his head were ones he hadn't felt the need to use in years.

Breathe…

Exhale…

Calm.

An arrow slammed into Jaune's shoulder, it snapped when it met his aura but the blunt force of it still hurt like hell.

He placed his forearm across his face, obscuring his vision but protecting his eyes.

But he did not move.

Breathe…

Exhale…

Calm.

A rational fight. That's what he needed here. A rational fight.

He would run to the edge of the arena, skirt the wall, and…

 _Thumper?_

A dying scream echoed through his brain.

That's where he'd heard that name before.

That's where he'd heard that shitty semblance users name.

Another arrow broke against his aura.

He moved.

Some other enraged part of him took over. Like a second self. A younger, hotter self.

It pulled him back from the wheel of the vehicle that was Jaune Arc and it offered to take control.

And, against his better judgement, he let it.

He ran straight towards them.

The blade flew from his hand, that Thumper guy again no doubt…

But that was fine.

He shoved aside a blade as he collided with his first victim.

*l*l*

 _Chrom grinned at the open-mouthed horror clearly displayed on his lackey's face. The man stared at the sausage on the end of the pole._

 _"Nothing worse than dry meat is there?"_

 _"I-I guess not," replied the sickened grunt._

 _"Bit of blood keeps the outside from drying out. Course, it dries quick, burns even quicker, so you have to keep reapplying. But trust me, you never gonna taste meat better than when it's been dipped into a bit of blood."_

 _Chrom sighed. This sausage would be worth the dry eyes of standing this close to the explosive inferno for so long. The heat was intense. But he chose to believe the succulent snack would be worth it. It'd gotten better since it started raining too. He was almost perpetually dry because of the intense heat, but the weather still cooled him down decently._

 _"Even human blood?" the lackey spoke uncertainly._

 _Chrom turned towards the newbie a little more fully. "Especially human blood."_

 _A glint caught Chrom's attention. It was from the corner of his eyes that he saw it, the orange glow of the fire reflected at him with twice the intensity. It could have just been one of his men. He liked to run a strict camp when it came to weapons maintenance. Any one of their polished pommels could have reflected that light._

 _But there was something about it that gave him pause. Was it getting brighter? Was it approaching him?_

 _Something was approaching him. Something dangerous. Something feral. It was a gut reaction. A base instinct. He reached over his shoulder, grasping his sword, Respecter of None. He pulled out the massive blade as he turned to face whatever he felt approaching._

 _It was a man._

 _A boy._

 _A huntsman. His face was drawn into a silent snarl. His arms pumped as he sprinted through their drunken camp uncontested. His hair was pulled back, revealing blazing blue eyes. His expression left nothing to the imagination. There was murder on his mind._

 _Had they missed one? It was hard to imagine they had missed a single civilian—but a huntsman?_

 _Maybe he had been out on a mission and this was his home._

 _Maybe he had seen the pillar of smoke and returned home early._

 _Maybe he had returned to find his wife and child in ashes._

 _Whatever the reason that he wasn't dead. Whatever the reason he was here now. And whatever the reason he was now making a suicidal dash towards him…_

 _It didn't matter._

 _He was just one more weakling to rid the world of. One more neck to behead._

 _Chrom settled into a stance, cocking his blade back, ready to swing._

 _He expected the boy to slow down when he saw Chrom's great blade. To hesitate he saw the ease with which Chrom wielded that blade._

 _All men stopped when they saw Respecter of None. How could they not? He was magnificent._

 _This man didn't slow. Not even a little._

 _Something about that sent a lancing flicker of annoyance forking through the canals of Chrom's brain._

 _He'd return this irritation one-hundred-fold. He figured he'd aim a little below shoulder level, that way he could separate the boy's head, neck, shoulders, and a bit of chest from his body. The more he cut through, the more satisfying the kill would be._

 _It was almost too easy._

 _The enemy was running at him with empty hands and in a straight line. He had a sword at his hip, but what good would that do him if he did not draw it?_

 _This would be easier than the huntress scum he had killed on their way into town and those girls he'd had Thumper disarm the moment the battle began._

 _All he had to do was time this correctly._

 _Chrom swung._

 _And then the boy dropped._

 _It was sudden and unexpected._

 _An instant ago, the feral animal was running straight at him six-foot-tall, the next he had lost two feet and slipped under Chrom's slice._

 _He hit hard._

 _Harder than Chrom was accustomed to getting hit—by humans at least. It felt like when an Ursa Major started throwing its weight around. Chrom slid back a foot or so as the man's arms wrapped around his legs._

 _Was he…trying to tackle him?_

 _Chrom didn't know whether to chuckle or groan at the attempt. On the one hand, the kid wasn't terrible. Not really. Chrom could envision this level of strength having been a problem for him back in his tournament days. When he still fought to impress Raven…_

 _Before she had betrayed them with her benevolent philanthropy shit._

 _Chrom didn't care how much she was getting paid. He didn't care if the world was on fire around them._

 _There was a code. And she had broken it._

 _Regardless, he was stronger now. Now that he had taken her place. The world had changed. And he had changed with it. Out of necessity but also out of choice. He was stronger now, much stronger._

 _Strong enough to crack an unconcerned grin when he saw that the boy's tackle had only slid him back a foot-and-a-half or so._

 _"Do you know who I am boy?" he asked._

 _The boy didn't answer. Instead, he tried to lift Chrom._

 _It was an amusing effort. But Chrom was seven feet and four inches of pure, unadulterated mass. He was three-hundred-ten-pounds without the sword. With it, he was easily three-hundred-ninety. The boy would have better luck trying to lift an Ursa._

 _"I am Chr—"_

 _Chrom's words died in his throat abruptly when he lost contact with the ground. Suddenly he was moving. And the world was getting hotter and brighter._

 _Much hotter._

 _And much brighter._

 _Suddenly they were on the cusp of the inferno._

 _Chrom's aura flared, protecting him. But how long could aura last against a raging fire? He dropped Respecter of None. He had to. The blade was useless at this range. He clasped his hands together and brought them down with all his might upon the huntsman's back._

 _It had no effect._

 _Chrom knew he had felt it through his aura. How could he not?_

 _The huntsman just wasn't paying attention to the little details, like pain or spinal injuries._

 _Chrom could hear his men shouting in the background. He could see the man he had just been standing besides, holding a hand over his face, unwilling to bare anymore heat._

 _Chrom would kill him when he got out of this. He'd split him in half._

 _And then the huntsman took the last two steps, plunging them both into the fire. It all happened so fast. Chrom's aura drained like a tub without sides._

 _The boy heaved him, releasing his legs and sending him stumbling back into the fire._

 _Then the boy disappeared from his view._

 _Shit._

 _Chrom hadn't prayed since he was a boy, but he had almost restarted the practice there._

 _The boy had him worried._

 _Worried that he was crazy enough to kill them both._

 _But of course, he didn't want to die either. And the fire had to be lapping up his aura just as fast as it was Chrom's. So, he left as soon as he felt the heat._

 _Chrom made to move._

 _To escape the fire hungry for more flesh._

 _Only, there was the boy again. He hadn't left. Only stooped?_

 _In his hands now was…?_

 _Chrom's sword?_

 _There was no way a twerp like him could wield…_

 _Chrom glanced down. Down to where his massive blade was penetrating his stomach. He felt it push out his back._

 _The huntsman wasn't done._

 _He pushed forward, driving Chrom back into the fire. Driving the blade into the mountain of bodies that fueled the flames, effectively pinning the giant. Chrom looked at the huntsman and the huntsman looked at him._

 _One's aura still fighting off the worst effects of the blistering heat._

 _The other's skin now succumbing to it._

 _The huntsman leaned in, lips close to Chrom's ear._

 _"I don't give a shit about who you are… because you're nothing."_

 _Chrom wanted to reply. But he couldn't. He didn't have the words. And he didn't have the physical capacity to say the words even if he had them._

 _When he tried to speak he could only muster a gurgle of blood. And a bit of thrashing. And that was it._

 _It hurt._

 _It hurt so much._

 _Why couldn't he scream?_

 _What had the gaping sword in his chest done to him to make him unable to scream? He opened his mouth, but could release nothing more than a rasping gurgling shudder._

 _The huntsman stepped out of the inferno. He rolled along the ground the moment he escaped the fire, putting out the flames on his clothes._

 _Chrom spotted six or seven of his men—the only ones who had realized what had happened forming up outside the barrier of heat the fire provided. Their weapons were drawn._

 _But not one was willing to go within ten feet of the flames._

 _He knew four of those men had aura. He knew it with absolute certainty._

 _Was not one going to come for him?_

 _Their leader?_

 _Not one?_

 _The huntsman drew his sword._

 _As Chrom burned he watched the huntsman cut down those seven men. They tried to attack him together._

 _They never stood a chance._

 _Their screams served as a stand-in for his own, just barely audible over the roar of the fire._

 _This huntsman dealt only in absolutes. Maiming or killing blows only—and delivered with unfathomable speed and precision. A severed arm here. A broken knee there. A slashed throat or a decapitated head or an eviscerated stomach…_

 _He would grab one's arm while he stabbed another's foot. Then he'd break the arm he was holding before twisting one foe in between him and the next._

 _Chrom would have found the effortless killing poetic._

 _If he weren't burning to death._

 _If there weren't a hundred thousand needles puncturing every single one of his nerves._

 _One of the bandits managed to get behind the huntsman. He swung his club for the back of his head. It was a solid hit. It should have killed him. It should have, at the very least, destroyed his aura and sent him staggering._

 _But the huntsman spun and beheaded him._

 _More men came at this point. But Chrom couldn't see them._

 _Because his eyes were gone. Melted by the fire._

 _Hearing lasted a little longer. So, he was able to hear their curdling death screams._

 _When his sight vanished, he had tried to scream again. But still, nothing but bloody spittle escaped from his lips._

 _His hearing went soon after that._

 _The world was dead to him._

 _Except for pain. Pain existed._

 _Why?_

 _Why was everything else dead…but he was still alive?_

 _And burning?_

 _Still burning._

 _Minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Years. Eternities._

 _Who could say how long he burned?_

 _At some point, he realized, he had probably died long ago…_

 _And gone straight to hell—where the burning would continue._

 _Would it ever end?_

*l*l*

It was a strange thing coming down from the high of combat. It was state of existence one couldn't stay in.

At least, not if one wanted to live in society, around other normal human beings.

When it was time to fight, to really fight, Juane's every reflex was poised to kill.

There were those people and inputs he recognized as allies, and everything else was presumed to be an enemy.

The sound of air whistling towards his ear?

Duck, spin, lunge, cut down his attacker.

Protect the head at all costs—since knockouts could go through aura—the body though, the body could take all kinds of punishment.

Disable or kill with every strike. No light injuries. No staggering blows. If he saw an arm within reach, break it or cut it off. There was no point to just scratching it or hitting it. Or some other equally stupid response.

Jaune regulated his breathing as best he could.

He wouldn't have been this winded if he had just kept control of himself.

But no.

He _had_ to go buck-wild.

He surveyed the silent audience from his seated position. The bandits hadn't made much noise since he'd laid out Chrom.

But he hadn't noticed just _how_ quiet they were being until now.

The mood in the arena could only be described as somber.

Clint was looking at him with a… _mixture_ of emotions.

Vul's expression was less mixed. She was clearly terrified.

And Raven…

Well she was grinning at him like a goddamn loon.

Jaune looked down at Crocea Mors. The jagged broken blade was coated with crimson. He wiped it off on his seat.

The motion caused his seat to stir.

Good.

Jaune didn't have any more time to waste on this nonsense. He stood, grabbing his seat by it's collar.

Goddamn was he heavy.

He dragged him to the closest bit of wall and half-assisted half-threw him into a seated position.

Chrom opened his eyes.

Jaune watched him survey the arena.

He took the opportunity to glance around as well.

It was a mess. That was for sure. He'd been the one to wreak the carnage—and even he wasn't sure why it all looked so…excessive. Jaune was fairly certain he _could_ have won by incapacitating his foes. There had been no need to kill all of them.

And he hadn't.

Probably.

There had to be at least four or five of them playing dead. Now that he had calmed down a bit, he wasn't going to waste time checking.

He refocused his attention on Chrom.

The man's expression was about what he'd expect.

Because men like him, for all their bravado…

For all their, supposed, beliefs…

They were always cowards in the end.

They lacked courage and conviction.

So, when Chrom started shaking, eyes watering…

Well, Jaune wasn't so surprised.

"I remember you Chrom."

Chrom looked at him, confused.

"Yeah, you wouldn't remember me. It doesn't work like that. But I remember you."

Jaune slid Crocea Mors into his hoodie pocket. He looked around.

Where was it?

Ah.

He jogged across the arena. He noticed the subtle rise and fall of the chest of a man pretending to be dead on his way over. So he impaled him on Chrom's blade on the way back. He didn't stop for long.

He arrived back at Chrom.

"Honestly Chrom, I wish I had some fire dust to do this right."

Chrom's eyes widened even further. He gurgled some words that sounded vaguely like "please" and "stop".

"You know, you're probably regretting killing that kid right about now but…" Jaune levelled the point of the ornery weapon with Chrom's stomach. "…I would have killed you either way. Today... tommorow... a year from now... Whether we met again in this time or not..." Jaune stared into those miserable eyes. "I have a list you see…" He drove the blade through him, into the wooden wall behind. "…I just temporarily forgot you were on it."

Chrom stared down at his own massive sword, protruding from his stomach. And then he looked up at the man who had shoved it in there. Then he looked at the surrounding arena, a battlefield, corpses, limbs, and blood.

"It's strange isn't it?" continued Jaune, talking more to himself than to Chrom at this point. "I was going to kill you, no matter what, for a crime you're never going to commit. These men, who worshipped you? Who probably followed you when you left Raven? I was going to kill every one of them anyway—being forced to come here just made it a hell of a lot easier."

Jaune looked upwards.

"Maybe the universe doesn't hate me as much as I thought it did…"

Jaune watched Chrom struggle feebly against the sword pinning him to the wall, blood leaked out of his wounds, only worsened by the movement.

"…or maybe it just hates you more."

Chrom stared at him. There was hatred in his eyes. But mostly fear.

Fear of death.

Jaune sighed.

It wasn't as slow a death as the monster deserved.

But it would have to do.

He turned. "Raven. Will you take me and the kids to Qrow now?"

Raven left her seat in the box through a portal. She reappeared a little to Jaune's right.

She had a look about her. A predatorial, desiring look.

"Are you sure you need to go right now…?" She trailed off, circling him.

Jaune watched her cautiously.

"Your aura held that entire fight…but you still look like you're barely standing." She reached out a few fingers and pushed his left triceps.

Jaune resisted the urge to flinch at her touch and wince at the bruise that was already forming underneath his sleeve. So, she'd noticed him get socked there a few times? It was just one of many spots on his body where the pain was beginning.

For her to have noticed during the repeated blows to that side during the fight and to recall it now…

Couldn't underestimate those eyes.

"I'm already behind schedule Raven. Are you going to hold up your end of the bargain or not?"

Raven stared at him for a moment. Then she glanced around the arena, at all the dead men.

"Get the kids."

*l*l*

"Could this day get any goddamn worse?" muttered Qrow, staring into an empty flask. It was his fifth-time checking.

It was still empty.

Shocker.

Every bump in the road elevated his headache.

Even worse were the Atlesian soldiers he was forced to ride with. They'd only answer questions with "yes" or "no". They didn't respond to his jabs.

They were like a bunch of mini Ironwoods—except without the anger issues.

And Ironwood's anger issues were his best goddamn parts.

Qrow groaned.

And then there was the topper. The cargo. A large metal chamber with a glass panel.

A vegetable maiden that he had failed to protect.

The only way a day like this could get any worse was if…

A dark portal opened on the wall in front of him. The three soldiers riding in the cargo bay with him shouted and raised their weapons.

Qrow _could_ have told them to lower their guns and that this call was for him. But considering the valuable cargo they were transporting—and his sister's occupation…

Maybe it was for the best if they were ready to open fire.

Qrow stood. Tapping his foot. Waiting for his bastard of a sister.

Then out popped a blond he had never seen before, covered in blood from head to toe. Probably not his own, from the looks of it. And two kids. The girl was a faunus and clearly in bad shape. The boy looked as if he… _could_ have been a faunus.

The blond had a large red scar across his face. It didn't look like the sort of thing one got in an industrial accident. It looked like a warrior's scar.

Plus, he was covered in blood—but not in wounds.

That was a warrior thing too.

Who were these…?

No.

No point in trying to figure it out on his own. It wasn't the first time Raven had sent some weird-ass stuff out of the portal ahead of her. She'd usually pop out a few seconds later to explain—

The portal closed.

Right.

She pulled this shit too.

The bloody blond was the first to speak. "Qrow. It's good to see you. Was I too late?"

Qrow was disconcerted by the familiarity in the boy's tone. "Late for what?"

"To save the maiden?"

Qrow glanced from the blond to his cargo and back again.

"Yeah, I'd say so. But here's a question—" Qrow's hand drifted to his weapon. "Who the hell are you?"

 **And, thus the Raven Arc (if it can really even be called that) concludes. This arc has mostly been about character development with some action.**

 **From here we get into a bit more plot oriented stuff.**

 **Apologies if the pacing hasn't worked for you. I like to slow-burn…well…everything. Hopefully you've got a good feel for what the Jaune character is coming back from. He's recovering from a pretty messed up world.**

 **Are Clint and Vul going to be heavily involved in the story? No. I use O.C.'s sparingly.**

 **They will play a small role in it from her. But very small. Now that Jaune's on his way to Vale, he can start interacting with some canon characters and I don't have to waste time and effort making you care about OC arc protags or OC arc villains.**

 **To the people who message me afraid I dropped this story—sorry. Writing is kind of my job. And I do a lot of freelance work on the side. So sometimes I get overloaded with projects and don't have enough time for the stuff that doesn't pay the bills.**

 **And I also don't want cut back on the robustness of my chapters…**

 **Well...anyway...**

 **Fave, follow, review...**

 **Thanks**

 **-Vronsurd**


	7. On Therapy, Thugs, and Threats

**The Shield of Vale Chapter 7**

 **On Therapy, Thugs, and Threats**

 **Hola, so I'm back. I already announced this in my other fic but thought I should here as well.**

 **I'm back, I'm writing regularly, my chapter length might change, and I'll try to have a firmer update schedule. I've been gone because works been crazy—not because I hate writing or lost interest or have writer's block or am abandoning these projects.**

 **That said, I sometimes can't resist writing long chapters—it's in my nature. So, I don't really know how often I will be shortening my chapter lengths and how often I'll be 11, 12, 13, 14 thousand words.**

 **Also, as another part of my initiative to not drop off the fanfic grid for four or five months I set up a Pa t r eon which is "Pa t r eon dotcomforward-slash vronsurd" It's just so, eventually, I might be able to spend more time writing fiction and less writing the other boring stuff I write for work.**

 **Okay, so I've gotten a few messages from people noticing that the Semblance I wrote for Jaune in this story, starting in the Fall of 2017 is pretty similar to the one Jaune has in the show that wasn't revealed until the very last episode of the volume.**

 **That's because…**

 **Drumroll.**

 **It is the same.**

 **I figured the most obvious thing the show could do was give Jaune a defensive Semblance—given the fact that he's the only hero with a shield and his offense is pretty pathetic. And then I figured the most obvious way to have a defensive semblance in the world of Remnant was to be able to share aura.**

 **Pyrrha established in Volume 1 that Jaune has a healthy supply of aura. So, I figured, oh, the most obvious power to give Jaune is the ability to heal wounds and protect people—that sort of thing.**

 **That's how he healed Vul. In Shield of Vale. And I had a suspicion it would become cannon appropriate.**

 **Viola.**

 **To be honest, I was actually hoping beyond hope that Jaune's power wouldn't be sharing his aura in the show—because I'm not a fan of overly predictable writing.**

 **But I've learned to stem that disappointment ever since the death of Pyrrha.**

 **I mean, Pyrrha is the name Achilles used on Skyros in the Achilleid. He later was slain in battle despite his strength. Red flag. Then it seemed like the only point of her character was in relation to Jaune. Red flag. And then they threw death flags for her all third season. Red flag. And then she shares a goodbye kiss with Jaune. Red flag. Then She faces Cinder alone. Red flag. And then the writers shot her in the ankle like Achilles. Red flag. And then they killed her. Red…**

 **I was watching that like…surely, they're not going to have this play out so predictably. They're making her into a plot contrivance.**

 **Everyone said Pyrrha's death proved that no one in RWBY had plot armor because she was the strongest fighter. But to me she had a plot bullseye planted on her back from day one.**

 **I wanted Jaune to show up and die instead so badly. _That_ would have proven no one has plot armor. **

**Not even the characters voiced by the show's head writer.**

 **Alas.**

 **Arkos shippers must simply accept that JaunexPyrrha was DOA.**

 **The most unexpected thing that has happened in this show since then was when they opened season 4 with…**

 **JAUNE MELTED PYRRHA'S WEAPONS AND/OR CROWN AND ADDED IT TO HIS WEAPONS.**

 **WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!?**

 **YOU DON'T THINK HER FAMILY'S GOING TO WANT THAT SHIT?**

 **BOI YOU BEEN IGNORING HER ADVANCES FOR NEARLY A YEAR AND NOW YOU GET HER MOST PRECIOUS HEIRLOOMS AND YOU FRIGGIN SMELT THEM DOWN!?**

 **SHE WON FREAKING CHAMPIONSHIPS WITH THOSE WEAPONS. THOSE THINGS ARE WORTH ACTUAL CASH TO COLLECTORS AND SENTIMENTAL VALUE TO PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY LOVED PYRRHA!**

 **WHO THE HELL THOUGHT THAT WAS A GOOD IDEA?**

 **IM NOT JUST SAYING REN AND RUBY SHOULDA BEEN LIKE, TIME TO STOP, TO JAUNE**

 **SO, SHOULD THE WRITERS OF THE DAMN SHOW!**

 **THIS IS LITERALLY LIKE RUBY DYING AND WEISS TURNING HER CLOAK INTO SOCKS WITHOUT CONSULTING YANG, QROW, OR TAIYANG.**

 **THAT SHIT IS BROKEN AF.**

 **Anyway.**

 **Moving on,**

 **I dedicate this chapter to Against Fate.**

 **He's been wondering if I'm dead.**

 **Only on the inside man.**

 **Didn't have time to proofread thoroughly. Content beta'd by Mystery Beta**

 **Enjoy:**

Life was the worst.

It always had been.

That's just what it meant to be Qrow Branwen, huntsman extraordinaire…

And the unluckiest man to have ever lived.

Between a crippling semblance, some crippling addiction, and more guilt and regrets than he cared to think about, Qrow's life had never been a box of chocolates.

It was more like a box of mouse traps.

And the latest discovery in that package of pain?

A man named John.

No last name.

No explanation as to why he'd just popped out of a portal while Qrow was transporting the most important cargo of his entire hunting career.

There was just John, the dangerous huntsman, covered in blood. And the two kids, also huntsman trained.

"Are you traveling by truck because you already have some bullheads flying ahead of you?" asked the blond huntsman. "Are they the decoys?"

Qrow didn't answer John—if that was his real name.

He just stared.

He hated being on his back foot like this.

"How long do you think it will take to get to Vale in this vehicle—a couple of hours?" John tried again.

Qrow, again, didn't bother answering. Instead he continued to study John.

John, seeming to realize that Qrow wasn't quite ready to answer his inane questions, pressed his lips and glanced around the truck interior.

It didn't take long for Qrow to finish assessing John as a threat.

He was clearly dangerous.

To someone.

Somewhere.

The question that remained was if he was a dangerous to Qrow. To the Atlas lackies. To the dying maiden barely alive in that humming contraption a few feet away.

Qrow wasn't so concerned about himself. But could he protect the soldiers? Could he at least protect the one who hadn't stopped talking about his newborn daughter the entire damn trip?

And then there was the maiden…shit.

Was he supposed to prioritize a mostly dead girl over living men with newborn daughters?

Yes.

He hated the answer. But of its veracity he was certain.

"So…" Qrow drifted off. He glanced at the kids awkwardly sleeping on the truck floor. He glanced at Ironwood's men that had all gravitated towards the dying maiden and away from their mysterious new huntsman guest. "How's Raven?"

John met his eyes with the practiced ease of a man who had learned to remain unfazed in every situation. "She's the worst."

Qrow looked back at the kids.

They didn't seem to be sleeping because they were comfortable—after all, the truck's metal floor was hardly a bed…

And they didn't appear to be sleeping because they were relaxed or felt safe—after all, a fight between him and John _could_ breakout at any moment…

As far as Qrow could tell, the kids were sleeping out of pure exhaustion.

They were sleeping because they'd been through hell.

He hated the certainty with which he knew that his sister was probably the lead demon in that hell.

"That she is…" he finally responded.

"She's recruiting," said John.

" _Recruiting_?" Qrow repeated, exhaling sharply. "Any chance it's a volunteer system?"

"No," replied John. "It wouldn't be a big deal if she was just snatching up thugs and criminals but…" he motioned to the kids on the ground. "…she killed their teammates. I barely got these two out."

Qrow grimaced. Raven had never been the compassionate sort. She didn't even show much empathy towards young children.

Children over the age of ten?

In Raven's mind those brats were practically soldiers already.

"How'd you convince Raven to let the kids go, and give you a ride?"

Jaune exhaled roughly before answering. "I can be pretty persuasive, when I want to be."

Qrow was sorely tempted to dig deeper on the Raven issue. But he couldn't make that his priority. Not right now.

"We'll definitely come back to that but—"

"You want to know why I'm here," interrupted John.

"No shit," said Qrow. "You were with Raven. You convinced her to let the kids go. She opens a portal to me. That all makes sense. If she was going to open a portal to one of us and send some random-ass person through it would be me…"

Qrow realized John probably didn't know what he was talking about in that last part, but he wasn't the one who needed to explain himself. Nor did he need to get into the finer details of Raven's obnoxious powers. He was supposed to be here. And Raven

"…but that doesn't explain how you knew about Amber. How you knew she was in danger."

The blond huntsman sighed, running his fingers through his dirty hair.

A few seconds passed. Then half a minute. Then two minutes. Qrow watched the huntsman's expression closely.

He seemed to be deep in thought, trying to figure out what to reveal.

Made sense.

No matter who he was or who he worked for, the man was obviously dripping in secrets.

The very fact that John knew about Amber meant there were three distinct possibilities.

First, John was part of some other secret society type of deal, independent from Ozpin. Some group that believed the old tales and legends—stories that predated even The Church.

This was…unlikely, to say the least.

Qrow had been working with Ozpin for years. One would think if there was some other group working on the Salem problem, he would have run into them by now.

The second possibility was that John was an ally of Ozpin, just one that Qrow had never met or heard of.

This didn't seem all that likely either, but it wasn't impossible. Ozpin wasn't exactly an open book. Maybe he kept a few cards so close to his chest that even Qrow couldn't see them.

Number three was, by far, the likeliest.

John was working with Salem.

Since Amber had just been attacked, it made sense that Salem would have someone on standby to finish the job.

It was the most likely possibility, all things considered.

But…

At the same time, Qrow didn't buy it.

Not because John had a particularly truthful look about him. No, he had the look of someone who would do whatever it took to get the job done, to accomplish his mission, an attribute that didn't really lend itself towards honesty.

No, Qrow didn't believe John was working with Salem…

Because of Raven.

Raven was many things, but an ally of Salem?

No.

Raven would never work alongside the Grimm Queen—at least not willingly.

And that was Raven's portal John had just popped out of.

Perhaps he was working with Salem secretly?

Perhaps Raven was assisting him, ignorant of his true intentions?

That seemed unlikely too.

Because, if so, who the hell were these children with him?

They were obviously huntsman trained, that much was obvious. But the way they fell asleep almost immediately—defenselessly. They weren't experienced rogues. They were probably students. Two of them, without the rest of their team.

And given how terrorized they looked and whose portal they had just stepped out of…

Well, John's explanation felt about right.

Sure, they could have been props, an effort to make Qrow lower his guard.

But what a strangely roundabout method that would be.

It would make more sense to bring two well trained warriors. That way, two of them could engage him while one finished off the maiden.

Two of them pretending to fall asleep while one remained awake, as a distraction…

It could have been a ploy.

But—well—it was a really bad one.

The kids' prone positions and lack of movement would allow him to train his attention on John. He trusted his peripheral vision to pick up any sudden motion should the kids be less innocent than they appeared. Which meant he could focus on getting answers from the huntsman before him.

Qrow refocused on John's face.

God.

Damn.

It.

The man's chin had drifted to his chest. His eyes were closed, and his breathing had evened.

He was asleep now too?

I*I*I

Jaune felt bad for pretending to fall asleep.

And for ignoring Qrow shouting "hey!" over and over.

And for snoring even louder when Qrow started nudging him.

Jaune knew Qrow.

He felt comfortable in his presence. Comfortable enough to close his eyes and let his guard down—just a little.

Qrow, on the other hand, had no idea who he was or what he wanted. All he knew was Jaune's alias—which, to be honest, was essentially his name—and that Jaune was dangerous.

Jaune wished he could set Qrow at ease, let him relax a little, same as him.

But…

He had no idea how.

Qrow wanted answers. And he deserved them too.

But what could Jaune say?

What information could he provide that Qrow would believe?

What lies could he tell that would set the huntsman's mind at ease?

Jaune's thoughts drifted idly towards the small journal sewn into his clothes, every page filled Weiss's meticulous writing.

He remembered the plan.

He remembered what he was supposed to say to Qrow. How he was supposed to garner the cynical man's trust.

But that was all out the window now, wasn't it?

Because the circumstances were all wrong.

He wasn't supposed to have popped out of one of Raven's portals.

He wasn't supposed to be covered in blood.

He wasn't supposed to have two brutalized children with him.

And he wasn't supposed to have let Amber die.

Saving Amber's life. Fighting off her assailant's side by side…

Not to mention, alongside Ruby and Weiss.

Things would be different if it had all gone down how it was supposed to.

He, Ruby, and Weiss would have pretended to be passing by. A few wandering huntsmen, looking for a cause.

By the time the day was over, Qrow would have no doubt that they were from the future.

How could Qrow ignore the fact that Ruby looked identical to his niece? How could he ignore how she sounded? What she knew?

Jaune would have knocked heads in Vale. Meanwhile, Ruby and Weiss would have gone to Beacon—to Ozpin.

Jaune tasted bile as he remembered that, had Weiss's deception succeeded as intended, Ruby would have been going to Beacon alone.

Best not to think too much about that. Only depression and regret laid in that direction.

As it was, everything was different now.

There was no easy way to get Qrow to trust him.

There was no easy way to convince Ozpin and Glynda and Qrow that he was from the future—not without Ruby's hardly changed face and personal connection to Qrow.

Hell, Jaune wasn't even sure which part of the plan he should be enacting next.

Without Ruby here he had twice the work cut out for him. Everything the two of them were supposed to be doing simultaneously was now a matter of prioritization.

He was heading to Beacon now. No doubt Qrow was on his way to the school to drop off the half-dead maiden.

Should Jaune travel with him until he arrived at the academy? Should he immediately meet with Ozpin? Should he focus on Ruby's part of the plan first?

Or should Jaune part ways with Qrow once they were in Vale, accomplishing his own section of the plan and then circling back to Ruby's?

He'd need to do both eventually.

But which would come first?

It was with all this in mind that Jaune kept his eyes firmly closed.

He had no idea how he should answer Qrow's questions. So, he didn't leave himself open to being asked.

"Hey!"

Jaune heard the whistle of a weapon, carving through the air. He felt the burst of air as the blade approached his neck.

He didn't move.

And, as expected, the weapon stopped short, just a few inches from him.

Jaune resisted the urge to smile as he continued his fake slumber. Qrow would believe that he was deeply asleep now.

He didn't know that Jaune had fought alongside him for years…

He didn't know that Jaune already knew he wasn't the type to kill a stranger in their sleep…

And he also didn't know that Jaune's thick aura wells would have stopped his scythe-sword short…

Not knowing any of that, he had no choice but to accept that Jaune might have been fast asleep.

And Jaune planned to keep it that way.

At least until he figured out his next move.

I*I*I

It had been a few hours since Jaune began to fake sleep, when the texture of the road beneath them began to change. Most of the trip had been a bumpy ride. The paths and trails from the outer villages back to the citadel were well-maintained dirt at their best and nearly straight wilderness at their worst.

Jaune knew they were near Vale once they were on real paved roads and the truck's chassis stopped bemoaning its fate.

In fact, if Jaune remembered correctly, they were probably practically in Vale. The first paved roads they would encounter coming from those villages would be the narrow tunnel that stretched under Vale's wall to the north.

Jaune had fought in that tunnel once. He'd started just a few minutes before the Grimm horde formed a massive pile of writhing bodies outside the wall, large enough for the ones on top to throw themselves over.

It was at that point that holding the tunnel became a suicide mission. After all, the Grimm would soon close in from behind.

So, Weiss and Glynda collapsed the cramped passage, allowing the huntsmen who were previously defending it to refocus on the monsters crashing down from atop the walls.

Jaune yawned and stretched. He opened his eyes slowly, as if he had actually been sleeping the entire trip.

He _had_ fallen asleep for a little while there—lightly drifting off—but, for the most part, he'd been awake and thinking, albeit with his eyes closed and a light snore escaping his lips.

"You sleep well?" asked Qrow, an obvious bite in his tone.

Jaune ignored it. "Yeah, how about you?"

"Didn't get quite as much sleep as I thought I'd be getting on this trip."

Jaune struggled to prevent himself from grinning at Qrow's grousing. The man had to stay awake and sober a few hours to keep an eye on Jaune.

Boo-freakin-hoo.

"Are we in Vale?"

Qrow's eyes narrowed at the question. "Feels like it. Or at least were close. Why?"

"Why?" repeated Jaune. "Because that's my stop."

Qrow's eyes narrowed further. Almost into slits. His voice was less biting now, but it had a more serious edge. "You mean you're not riding to the end of the line with me?"

"Oh, come on Qrow, you really want me to know where you're taking the maiden?"

"No, I don't," replied Branwen. "But I'd love to hear how you know what a maiden is. And if you're working for the monster that tried to kill her."

"Ah," said Jaune. "You wanna know if I'm a Salem flunky."

Qrow flinched. It was barely visible. But it was enough to indicate to Jaune that knowing the Grimm Queen's name was enough to set the older huntsman on edge.

"I would like to know that very much."

"And I would _love_ to prove that I'm on your side right now. And it's great that you're asking. But you sort of missed your window of opportunity to get answers on the ride here—"

" _You_ wouldn't wake up!" interjected Qrow.

Jaune continued without missing a beat. "Now we're in Vale. And I'm on a very short schedule. Plus, I'll be visiting Ozpin soon anyway. So, if you stick around you'll get your explanation eventually—"

"I don't want an explanation _eventually_!" Qrow growled.

"Also, the kids know a bit about me and what your sister is up to. So, I'll just give you some time to digest all of that information and by the time you're done with—"

Qrow cut him off with even more force. "You want to leave the kids with me!?"

"Of course," replied Jaune. "I mean, there gonna need some serious therapy. No better place than Beacon am I right?"

"So, you do know where I'm taking the maiden."

"If it was only a guess then you just confirmed it."

Qrow glowered at him.

Jaune sighed. He wasn't trying to piss Qrow off. It was just…

Jaune had a relationship with him, a relationship built off years of training, combat, and friendship.

He'd lost that relationship to Salem.

But now, seeing Qrow alive, speaking and breathing and scowling, he was falling into old habits.

It was too easy to speak with him in the same easygoing manner they had adapted when they fought alongside each other.

"Look, saving the maiden was part of my mission. And I'm sure you'd trust me a bit more if I had helped you capture Salem's maiden candidate. But your sister screwed that up for everybody when she locked me in a cage and force me into blood-sport."

Qrow's eyes became moons at that admission.

"All that said, I have business to take care of in Vale—business I need to handle before I meet with Ozpin."

Jaune sighed. Before all their best-laid plans went awry Qrow might have even trusted Ruby to finish the delivery of the maiden alone, instead joining him on his mission in Vale.

"Listen," began Qrow. "I'm sorry my asshole of a sister pulled some messed up shit on you and the kids. But that doesn't mean I can just let you go without asking some questions. Unfortunately, I don't have all the questions that need to be asked. Ozpin does. So "

"I get that, I do," replied Jaune. "But can you actually stop me? If I decide to go?"

Qrow's hand eased toward his weapon.

Jaune didn't move.

"I mean, I don't know which of us is stronger…"

A blatant lie.

"…but I'm no pushover…"

The understatement of the century.

"…and don't you think the two of us fighting would endanger this convoy? Endanger the maiden?"

Qrow's gaze flitted towards the machine housing Amber's semi-lifeless body.

"Your mission is to deliver her _safely_ , right? You should focus on that. I'll do what I have to and then, when I'm done, I'll come visit you all at Beacon."

Qrow's silence spoke volumes. He just needed a push.

"Besides, if I was working for Salem, and I was after the maiden, it'd make more sense for me to try something now, wouldn't it? Instead of letting you take her to one of the most defensible locations on Remnant—a huntsman academy."

"That's true," replied Qrow, uncertain.

Jaune decided to keep him off balance. He stood, moving towards the back of the truck. "How do you open this thing anyway?"

Jaune inspected the panel on the far wall. It looked like all he had to do was flip the locking mechanism and hit the big green button to open the bay doors.

"You're not even going to say goodbye to the kids?" Qrow motioned to the kids who were still comatose on the floor.

Jaune studied Clint and Vul for a moment. He felt responsible for them. But he couldn't take them with him. Besides, there was no safer place than Beacon.

For now, at least.

He shook his head. "I'll see them when I come to Beacon in a bit." Jaune flipped the switch and pressed the button. The cargo doors began to open. "Which reminds me. Don't let them go back to Haven. Tell Ozpin that Lionheart is a rat. He might even be killing off huntsman and huntresses."

Qrows hand was suddenly on his shoulder, spinning him around. His voice was a growl. "What!?"

Jaune held his gaze for a moment.

He spoke slowly and clearly. "Lionheart. The headmaster of Haven. Is a rat. He's Salem's pawn."

If Qrow's face was any indication, he had questions. A lot of them.

More than Jaune had time for right now.

"We'll discuss it when I get back to Beacon."

"Wa—"

Qrow tried to get a better grip on him. He tried to tell him to stop.

But Jaune didn't give him the chance to finish either attempt.

Jaune flung himself, back first, towards the hard pavement, flowing like a river below.

I*I*I

It had been a long time.

Jaune took in the building looming over him.

He didn't waste much time admiring the familiar structure. Just as he hadn't wasted much time gawking at the happy vibrant city of Vale.

Sure, the last time he had walked down these streets the city was war torn and ravaged, just barely holding out against waves of Grimm that were growing in both size and frequency…

So, seeing the roads alive and thriving…

The sidewalks maintained and bustling…

It felt good. Really good.

But he didn't have time for reminiscence or appreciation.

He had a job to do.

Two jobs really.

His _and_ Ruby's.

Between dinner with his family and Raven's recruitment insanity he had wasted more than enough time.

So, without another thought, he pushed open the door and entered the club.

Jaune had been under the impression that he wouldn't be allowed to enter the establishment as he pleased. That Junior's men would stop him at the door.

After all, it was still a few hours away from evening proper, and the club was practically empty during the day. Plus, he probably didn't look much like a businessman—the type who would request an audience with Hei during the day

But Jaune had underestimated just how intimidating he looked with the scar across his face and his torn and bloodied clothing. Junior's men took a single look at him and then thought better of it.

Their reaction put Jaune in a bit of a quandary. On the one hand, he really wanted a shower and a change of clothes.

On the other, it seemed his mission in Vale might go much faster if he looked like he could kill fifty Beowolves with his bare hands.

Perhaps that would prevent him from having to prove it.

I*I*I

Junior swore as he found yet another empty bottle of, what once was, expensive liquor beneath his counter. There were only two people in Vale who would disrespect him like this, three if you counted Roman's psychopathic pet. Stealing from him and leaving the evidence right here? Screaming at him? Mocking him?

He'd yell at the twins later.

But it wouldn't change anything.

It never did.

Those girls already knew most of his threats were idle—when it came to them.

Junior stroked the bottle's label forlornly.

How the hell did he wind up charged with the only two near-teenage girls in the world with a taste for expensive scotch?

Junior scowled when he discovered a fourth empty bottle. He would have tended the bar personally, 24/7, if he could have. Unfortunately, that just wasn't possible.

A man had to sleep after all.

Junior was drawn from his thoughts by the sound of someone clearing their throat. He growled as he straightened.

This had better be good.

He was surprised to find a pair of azure eyes locked onto him, rather than the dark lenses of one of his men.

The stranger across the counter was a mess.

His light hair was caked in dirt and blood. His sweat-jacket had several tears. The garment's color was probably blue—at one point. But it had long since become one giant stain, a collage of earthy reds and browns.

The odor was…less than pleasant. He stunk of death and wilderness. Like a mixture of rotting flesh and manure.

Junior's eyes drifted to the man's hands. He had a healthy abundance of sword callouses. Dirt and dried blood colored the edges of every fingernail.

Junior leaned forward and glanced down—subtlety damned—hoping to see what weapon this newest customer was packing—because there was no way he wasn't.

A broken sword.

He eyed the large scar stretching across the man's face.

Junior immediately decided that the stranger's sword wasn't broken by neglect or disuse—but by having been through some serious shit.

Normally when he had a serious huntsman at his bar he had to tell his own men to back the hell up and keep from bothering them.

Because, for some reason, the help never had functioning brains.

They couldn't tell by the countenance, by the way a warrior carried themselves, that they weren't the kind to be messed with.

Didn't look like that would be much of a problem with this one.

He hadn't even heard his guys at the door _try_ to stop this one.

"Huntsman?"

The question was barely necessary.

Most huntsmen didn't walk around their home city openly armed, dressed in clothes that had been shredded by Grimm, covered in the blood of their enemies.

But anyone who _did_ do that shit was a huntsman.

No doubt about it.

The stranger dipped his head, answering Junior's mostly rhetorical question quietly.

"You look like hell."

The man spoke, "Been in the Grimmlands for more than a year now. Just got back."

Shit. He had spoken too soon.

For a man who had been living in the Grimmlands for a year, he didn't look so bad.

Of course, that could have been a lie. Junior had no way of confirming or denying that possibility. But this guy didn't strike Junior as the type to bullshit. Bullshitting was for bitches who wanted to be something more than what they were.

"You got a name?"

The man nodded. "John."

"I'm Hei. Most people call me Junior though."

It had been a long time since Junior had bothered introducing himself to someone—much less someone in his club, seated at his bar.

But it felt appropriate this time around.

Sure, most anyone who was anyone in Vale knew his name…

But one could never assume with these hardcore huntsman types.

The kind that spent more time around Grimm than people.

The kind that lived off roots and mushrooms and bark and bugs and whatever-the-hell-else was barely edible in the wilderness.

No.

Assuming John knew of him was practically the same as assuming an Ursa knew of him—or perhaps even a tree.

"Nice to meet you Junior."

"Pleasure is mine, I'm sure." Junior reached under the counter, producing a glass. "What's your poison?"

John stared at the glass for a moment and then looked up at him. "Sorry, no money. I was hoping for some water."

Junior blinked.

The huntsman's honesty was surprising.

John _had_ to know that Junior wouldn't try anything. Even if John managed to drink a few hundred bucks' worth of liquor, there was no way Junior would stop him if he walked without paying.

It was a simple inequality.

There was the money he'd be out because John had guzzled his wares.

And then there was the money he'd be out if John started cutting up his guys and flinging aura-hardened bodies around.

Only one of those losses stood to be three figures.

Junior fished out a glass from below and went for the tap. Upon his return, the huntsman guzzled the liquid greedily.

Junior watched the last vestiges of liquid fade from the cup.

The man was thirsty.

"That hit the spot," said John, setting down the cup.

"You want something else?" asked Junior. "On the house?" he added, after remembering that John had already told him he was strapped for cash.

"Maybe," said John. "Let's talk business first. If you're still feeling generous afterward, I might take you up on your offer."

Junior tensed.

Of course.

It was too much to hope that the huntsman was only looking for a sip of water.

Normally, Junior was amenable to a bit of extra business—of the tax-free variety.

But John wasn't the type of person Junior did business with. He avoided the hunstman's kind like the plague.

It wasn't because he was a huntsman. It was more than that. It was…well…

Everything could be bought. It was part of Junior's philosophy. Part of his way of life.

He dealt in booze and information.

It didn't matter if he had the finest wine on Remnant. Or a secret that could set the world aflame.

There was always a price. A figure. An amount.

There was always a sum for which he was willing to part with well…anything.

Well, almost always.

When it came down to it, the _only_ thing more important than money was life.

And _that_ was why he stayed away from business deals with men like John.

Because dead men didn't need cash.

And men like John dealt in death.

It wasn't just because he was a huntsman.

There were civilians who bestowed death to those involved them like part favors—albeit with less intense certainty.

And there were also huntsmen who viewed themselves as more lover than killer—although that didn't stop them from killing Grimm.

So, no. Being a huntsman wasn't what made John a death-dealer.

There was something else. Something…broken inside him.

There was no way to know what it was that had broken him, not really. But Junior had still learned to detect the type.

To see it in their eyes.

To hear it in their voice.

It didn't mean that John was going to kill him.

No.

Not personally.

He didn't have to.

Men like him were like a living breathing magnet for death. And it was normally the people standing next to death magnets that got hit by the shrapnel.

There were thousands of deals, crimes, and jobs taking place in the underbelly of the city. Death-dealers like John were only interested in the most volatile, the most deadly.

Junior had no doubt that the moment John concluded his "business" here, he'd go piss off the most murderous most dangerous individuals in Vale.

Of course, none of this _had_ to be Junior's concern. John could do whatever the hell he pleased.

Junior certainly wasn't going to stop him.

Unless…

Unless John wanted his help to do it.

Junior didn't give a shit what sadistic powerhouse criminals John screwed over

As long as he wasn't the man who sold the information necessary for the screwing to commence.

Because when heads started rolling down the hills and blood started flowing in the streets, the first to die wouldn't be the huntsman who spent the last year living with Grimm.

They'd kill everyone who helped him—since they'd all likely be a bit more killable.

Junior cleared his throat.

"I thought you didn't have any money."

As Junior spoke he made eye contact with Jasper, one of the few capable men on his payroll. Jasper stood across the dance floor, leaning against an empty table, watching his boss from behind white shades.

Most of Junior's men were too dumb to realize how Junior's dress code functioned. The grunts. The stupid ones. The rent-a-thugs.

They wore red.

The few men on which Junior could actually rely wore white.

Jasper though, he was a step above. So much so that Junior was considering implementing a third color just for him. And perhaps the twins, if he could convince the ornery girls to get in a uniform.

Jasper gave him a slight nod, indication that he had received his boss's silent message.

"I don't," said John.

"I see," replied Junior. "Well, I suppose business doesn't require money. It can be conducted with the direct exchange of goods or services. Do you have either?"

"Definitely no goods," replied John. "And I don't have much time for services either."

Junior exhaled.

Of course.

"What do you want?"

"You know Roman Torchwick."

It wasn't a question.

"I do. What's he to you?"

John laced his fingers. "Roman stole something from me. And I need to find him. It's been a long time since I've spent more than a couple of days in Vale. If I tried to track down Roman by myself, I'd have to start from the beginning. I don't have time to work the streets."

"So, you want the location of Roman Torchwick," began Junior. He produced a cup from beneath the counter, popping in a couple of ice cubes.

John nodded along with him.

"You don't have money, goods, or services."

John continued to nod.

"Yet you have every expectation that I'll help you—for free."

"Yes."

Junior sighed. Of every criminal in Vale, Roman was the one he worked the closest with. Not to mention he was one of the most dangerous. Yeah, there was still a sum for which Junior would sell him out.

But it was high as hell.

If John expected to attain his cooperation any other way…

Well, the huntsman better have an army waiting outside this club.

"Are you threatening me John?"

" _No_." The force and emphasis with which John responded almost convinced Junior that he was telling the truth.

Almost

"Well," continued John. "Not yet."

There it was.

"I was hoping to convince you that telling me Roman's location was in your best interest—peacefully."

"Peacefully huh?"

"Yes."

"This ought to be interesting." Junior kept track of the motion occurring behind the huntsman from the corners of his vision. He kept the brunt of his attention focused on John, willing the huntsman not to turn. "Proceed."

I*I*I

Jaune sighed. Was there really any chance of him convincing Junior to talk without even a _small_ display of strength?

Probably not.

It would take a perfect mix of lies and truth to convince Junior to spill.

Jaune had grown proficient at lying over the years. But that didn't mean he was great at weaving a web of deceit.

Telling a lie was all about a burst of imagination, keeping a straight face, and making it sound convincing.

A web of deceit involved keeping track of one's story, and adding compelling details, and making sure none of the facts contradicted each other—plus it required everything a simple lie took—only repeatedly, until the victim's questions and suspicions were assuaged.

Weiss was a masterclass at this sort of thing.

Jaune wasn't certain he'd be able to replicate her success.

Which was fine.

Jaune wasn't _that_ opposed to using force here.

Junior was a criminal after all.

Still, if he could avoid it. He would.

He just didn't have that much against the man. He was a far cry from good. He'd done some horrible things. And he'd likely continue to do horrible things.

But after facing real monsters like Salem, Tyrian, and even Cinder…

It was hard to see small-time crooks as a source of significant evil. If Jaune remembered correctly, in the end, Junior and the twins had fought in the defense of Vale—not that it mattered at that point.

Yes, Junior had played a role in ending the world.

But how was Junior to know the role he was playing in the apocalypse years before it began? If he'd been aware his actions would, eventually, lead to the end of the human race…well,

"I know you work with Roman. I know you've been renting your guys out to him."

Junior's face gave away nothing. "Can't say I know what you're talking about."

"They wear your club's uniform on Roman's jobs."

Junior didn't respond to Jaune directly. He did mutter something about "disappointing morons" under his breath.

Jaune held off the urge to chuckle at that. He'd been thrust into the role of a general of sorts in the war. He knew the struggle of finding good men.

"Look, I'm not one of those huntsmen who fight organized crime as well as Grimm. I wouldn't be talking to you if it wasn't a matter of national security."

"I didn't know huntsmen handled national security," said Junior.

"We do when it involves Grimm," replied Jaune.

"I thought this was about Roman. You said he took something from you?"

Jaune nodded. It was time to weave that web.

"Yeah. He did. But…I'm not actually after Roman. I've been tracking a terrorist for the past year. Not White Fang. Not a basement bomber. A real cultish nutjob. Roman's fallen in with her. I don't think he knows her endgame. But I do. And it isn't pretty. Not for Vale. Not for Atlas or Mistral or Vacuo. Not for humanity—"

"So, what he'd take from you?" Junior interrupted him.

Jaune watched Junior's eyes flicker past him. No doubt, he was assessing his gathering defenses. Considering the man had just cut him off, rather than let him drone on, Melanie and Militia and the rest of the club's guards were probably almost ready.

If he was going to do this without violence, he'd need to speed things up.

"A weapon," Jaune lied. "An ancient weapon. One capable of summoning Grimm hordes."

Ah. That got Junior's attention. Even if there was an obvious swirl of disbelief in the criminal's pupils.

"Roman is messing with forces he doesn't understand. And he's helping start a shitstorm that this city—no, this kingdom—won't survive."

Jaune drummed his fingers on the counter. He stole a glance at a reflective mixer on the other side of the bar, taking note of the spread of the guards fanning out behind him.

His gaze didn't linger. Instead, he swerved his attention back to Junior. "You don't strike me as the kind of guy to do much out of the kindness of your heart. But you also strike me as someone who isn't looking to watch the world burn. I need Roman to get to his master. And I don't know how long I've got to get to that madwoman before there are Grimm running through the streets."

Junior was silent for a moment, considering Jaune's hodgepodge collection of twisted truths and flat out lies. Then he spoke.

"Sounds like war. War's good business."

"It won't be war," corrected Jaune. "It'll be anarchy. Just Grimm and mobs and dying children and burning hospitals—business will never have been worse."

"I see," said Junior.

Jaune saw a flash of…something in Junior's eyes as he glanced over Jaune's shoulder. It was obvious, to Jaune at least, that he was silently communicating with someone over Jaune's shoulder. Jaune didn't bother turning because…well…

Did it really matter who or how many were behind him?

Junior continued. "I admit, if I believed a word you just said, I might—might—consider talking. As it is, I don't. Which concludes our business. So, if you'd like that free drink I offered. You can have it to-go."

Jaune watched Junior bend a little, almost imperceptibly, and then straighten. He had picked something up just now.

Probably a weapon.

"How about I forgo the drink and you give me another minute to convince you?"

Junior stared at him. "Fine, I'll listen. But in the meantime, mind if I look at your sword?"

Jaune agreed with only a half second's consideration.

It was a smart move on Junior's part.

Junior wanted Jaune out of his bar yesterday.

Jaune had politely requested a minute more of his time.

By asking for Jaune's sword in return, Junior had structured the exchange as a sort of pro quid pro. If Jaune acquiesced, then Junior would likely give him a minute more to argue his case—albeit without his weapon. If Jaune refused, negotiations ended there.

Jaune was careful to grasp Crocea Mors by the blade and not the handle. No sense, setting off the group forming behind him—a group he had yet to directly observe.

Junior accepted the broken blade gingerly, clearly surprised that Jaune had given it up so readily in, what was quickly becoming, hostile territory.

His eyes widened further as he inspected the jagged metal. "Is this Old Valesian steel?"

"Impressive. My friend is a weapon nut and it still took her more than two years to recognize that."

"I have one," said Junior. "It's just ornamental now but…" He trailed off.

Jaune spoke after a few seconds of silence. "My grandfather fought with that blade. Then my father."

Junior didn't look up as he replied. "My grandfather fought with mine too. But it passed down to my uncle. Not my father. My grandfather didn't agree with my father's…business choices."

Junior inspected the shattered top of the weapon. "I thought Old Valesian steel was hard as diamond and required minimal maintenance. How'd you manage to break it like this?"

Salem at the height of her strength. After the fall of all four kingdoms. When Remnant itself trembled under her dark power.

But he couldn't quite say that could he?

"The woman I'm after has some very dangerous semblance users under her control."

"Semblances powerful enough to break Valesian steel?" asked Junior dubiously.

"Powerful enough to break Valesian walls," replied Jaune.

It wasn't true. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Neither Mercury nor Emerald had the power to bring down Vale's walls with their semblance alone.

But, this conversation with Junior was never really about the truth was it? It was about convincing Junior to tell him where Roman was—without having to destroy the man's club and decimate some gangster wannabes.

Jaune watched Junior admire Crocea Mors and examine the damage the old blade had acquired. After a few seconds Jaune spoke up—not wanting to waste the moment Junior had given him. "I understand that you don't believe me Junior. If I was in your shoes I wouldn't believe me either. An ancient weapon that can summon Grimm… A mysterious terrorist controlling Roman… Semblances that could destroy the only barrier between this city and the Grimm hordes…" Jaune scratched his cheek. Crusty dried blood fell on the counter.

Right, he'd almost forgotten that he looked like shit.

Was that helping or hurting him here?

"It sounds like a B-movie plot doesn't it?"

Junior didn't reply, eyes still trained on Crocea Mors.

Jaune exhaled.

Plan A was having no effect.

Time for Plan B.

"Junior."

For this plan, it was important that Junior focused. He needed Junior's undivided attention.

Junior continued to scrutinize his weapon.

"Junior."

"Hm?"

Jaune still didn't have the man's eyes.

"Junior!"

Jaune didn't quite shout. But there was a force to his tone and volume.

Junior's head jerked up.

"Sorry," began Jaune. "I didn't mean to startle you. But I need you to look me in the eyes for this and listen closely, because I won't be repeating myself." He leaned forward a bit and lowered his voice, forcing Junior to subconsciously lean forward too so he could hear him. "You may not believe what I'm telling your about Roman, about Vale, about the psycho who's made Torchwick her bitch. And that's totally fine."

Jaune shrugged loosely, as if that couldn't matter less to him.

"What you need to do right now, Junior, is look into _my_ eyes and decide whether _I_ believe all that."

Junior didn't look away from him. He couldn't.

Good.

Jaune was vaguely aware of several individuals approaching him from behind. Most of the footfall was muted but two clacked loudly on the dance floor.

The twins.

There was no great rush in their gait—probably because he wasn't acting in a very threatening manner and he'd already handed over his sword.

So Jaune kept talking as if he wasn't aware of the potential aggressors approaching.

"See Junior, I didn't come here to destroy your club. I didn't come here to kill your boys. I didn't come here to torture you. And I certainly didn't come here to put down two _girls_ who look like their level is about that of a first or second year at Beacon."

Junior swallowed.

It was involuntary, and he obviously fought it and, failing that, attempted to make it subtle.

But Jaune caught the motion.

He spotted the telltale rise and fall of the Adam's apple. It was a sure sign that his gambit was working. So, he continued.

"You seem like a good judge of character Junior. I think you've sized me up. And you're probably not that far off. Underestimating me a bit, sure. But everyone does that."

"I—" Junior began to speak.

Jaune interrupted him. "Don't speak yet Junior. I'm not done. In fact, I'd recommend that you don't even think about what you want to say next _while_ I'm speaking. Because, like I said, I'm not going to repeat this. Any of it. And you're going to need all this information to make an informed and wise decision in about thirty seconds."

Jaune paused, waiting to see if Junior would follow his advice or attempt to speak again. He noticed that the footfall behind him had come to a halt, about fifteen feet away.

He leaned forward a bit more, voice even lower. He and Junior probably looked like coconspirators in some devious plot.

"Now you don't believe my reasons for going after Roman. You don't believe how important my success here is for the city. That's fine. I don't mind that at all. You know why?"

Junior didn't speak.

Another good sign.

The question was rhetorical anyway.

"Because your belief doesn't matter here. Mine does. _I_ believe Roman is working with a dangerous monster. _I_ believe she'll lead an army of Grimm into this city. And _I_ believe my fastest way to that monster is Roman and my fastest way to Roman is you."

Jaune leaned in even closer. This time Junior took a partial step back. "Now, do you believe—that I believe all of that?"

Jaune waited for Junior to answer this time.

Junior took a few seconds to realize that his input was required. He nodded his head.

"Great. So. Tell me. Given what you can see of me—and keeping in mind the things I don't _want_ to do here—and taking into consideration what I believe—even if you don't reciprocate that belief—what do you think I'm _willing_ to do to you…your employees…and this establishment to get what I want?"

Junior's pupils were dilated. His hand, holding Jaune's sword, had a slight tremor to it.

There was a temptation to revel in the effect he could have on people now that he was a fully trained, battler-scarred, weathered huntsman. But Jaune never felt much like reveling when he threw down the gauntlet like this.

It had become necessary in his war-ravaged post-apocalyptic world. Hell—it was necessary a few hours ago in Raven's goddamn post-apocalyptic bandit camp.

Still, it drew a line between himself and most other people.

If Junior, a hardened criminal, feared him?

What civvy wouldn't?

Junior finally spoke. "You're out—"

Jaune cut him off. "I didn't ask if I was outnumbered Junior." He shook his head. "I asked—very clearly, I might add—what do you think I'm willing to do, to get what I want? If you want to answer a different question, that's fine too. I've got one for you. How many guys will it take to mop up the all the blood that's gonna be on that expensive looking dancefloor? Hm? Oh! Here's another. What accelerant will I use when I burn this place to the ground? Guess that solves the mop quandary, huh? Mm! Here's a doozy. Where will I take you to extract Roman's location, finger by finger?"

Junior was frozen, eyes locked on Jaune's unflinching expression.

"If you've got an answer to that third one I'd really appreciate it, because it's been a while since I've been in Vale and I do _not_ remember the good torture spots."

Jaune watched Junior waver. His eyes flicked down to Jaune's sword, as if confirming that it was still in his hand and not in the huntsman's. Then his gaze transitioned to the backup stationed behind Jaune—that Jaune had yet to even glance at. Then he looked down at his own weapon, still concealed behind the bar.

Jaune could see what Junior was considering. He'd drop Jaune's sword or throw it or something. That would serve as the perfect signal for attack. Jaune would turn to face his attackers. And Junior would blow him away with whatever weapon he possessed that almost certainly had some sort of gun feature.

It was a decent plan.

But it wouldn't work.

Not on Jaune.

But was Junior duly convinced of that fact?

It was time to put the final nail in the gangster's coffin.

Jaune glanced at the reflective mixer on the bar, giving him a sense of the layout behind him. "There's a girl behind me," said Jaune, keeping his eyes locked on Junior's. "She's about fourteen feet behind? Maybe…three to my left? Wearing the white?"

Mentioning one of the twins broke Junior out of his daze, his brow drifted downwards.

Jaune continued. Conversationally. As if he was talking about the weather. "I bet. By the time you drop my sword and level whatever high-powered explosive…gun…weapon…thing you've got back there. I'll have snapped her neck."

That got Junior's attention. His eyes were like saucers.

Jaune plodded forward, as if he were discussing his favorite sports team in a whisper. "She'd be first because she looks like she relies on her legs. Kicks aren't a great defense when someone's got you around the neck. Aura, no aura. I'd break her like kindling."

Jaune watched horror blossom on Junior's face. Not in a comically large way. But it was still plain-to-see.

"You wouldn't have a great shot after that, what with whitey's corpse between me and you. The other girl looks a lot like her. Are they sisters? Wait. Are they twins?"

Jaune made a sucking noise.

"Now that's a shame. For you, that is. I have twin sisters and if one of them saw the other get brutally killed right in front of her…I mean…sure, after a while she'd be angry. Furious. Enraged. But first she'd feel like a piece of her heart was ripped out. Like her life just lost all meaning. She'd just stop functioning. Freeze."

Jaune shook his head as if that was a damn shame.

"Snapping her neck would be even easier than her sister's. You know, an unmoving target and all that—"

Jaune was cut off by the clatter of his sword falling.

On the counter, between them.

"Jasper, get me a piece of paper and a pen! Melanie, Militia out! The rest of you, get back to your posts!"

One of the twins, Jaune couldn't tell which, began to reply, "aw…can't we have a bit of fun with mister bl—"

Junior cut her off with a roar that shook the glass in front of Jaune. "I said get the fuck out Melanie! Now!"

Jaune listened to most of the crowd behind him disperse. The girl, Melanie, was swearing under her breath. He still didn't turn.

A minute or so later. Jasper appeared beside him. He handed his boss a pad and pen, taking a position a little off to the side.

"Thanks Jasper. You can go back."

"Are you sure boss?"

Junior nodded tersely.

Jaune stood, sliding Crocea Mors back into his makeshift belt holster.

"Can't believe I'm doing this shit," muttered Junior as he, presumably, wrote down Roman's address.

Jaune watched the subtle shaking of Junior's writing hand.

Should he have felt bad? For impacting Junior like this?

Maybe...

But then again.

That trembling could have been caused by anything.

Maybe he just had low blood sugar.

No sense in feeling bad about that, right?

I*I*I

Roman rapped his knuckle against the car window in a methodic tempo.

He watched the dark scenery smoothly transition, lit by automobile headlights and street lamps. It wasn't quite night, more dusk. There were still hints of daylight in the sky. But none of those solar morsels provided much real illumination for the world below.

The ride over had been smooth. The turns were precise. Road laws had been followed. And Roman hadn't been asked for follow-up directions—not even once.

This driver wasn't half bad.

It was a refreshing realization.

His.

Driver.

Wasn't.

Bad.

It felt like a miracle.

He was gliding down the streets of Vale without a single damn thing going tragically wrong.

It was telling that this one skill—chauffeuring—from this one grunt—Gary—was, so far, the most useful talent any of Junior's men possessed.

God, he hated working with incompetent fools.

He hadn't always had to work under these conditions.

A few months prior, they had their pick of the jobs.

Back then, he and Neo personally selected the best to work alongside them, carefully vetting for their experience, talent, and professionalism.

Back in those blissful days, the two struck and vanished like the master-thieves they were, never leaving behind so much as a shred of evidence—although sometimes a slightly unnecessary line of bodies. A twist Roman preferred to avoid but—hey—who could reign in Neo _every single time_?

It didn't matter.

Back then they were king and queen of the goddamn castle. Neo could indulge in her torrid love affair with coldblooded murder and it didn't affect business much.

Things had…changed over the last few months.

When it came time to pick their jobs they had…lost quite a bit of independence.

And as for working with the best, well, it was all quantity over quality with their new slave-driver. Between Junior's morons-for-hire and the fanatic-blind-animals of the White Fang, Roman's daily routine now consisted almost entirely of dealing with the foibles of his people.

And looking at the quality of his own work these days…

His jobs were clunky, rushed, and obvious. It wasn't really his fault, after all, there was no element of surprise to be found in robbing every dust shop in Vale. And it wasn't as if his new work force could pull off a heist with any sense of elegance or panache—so why bother trying to integrate his signature flair into their plans?

It was bullshit, plain and simple.

The bullshit would have been tolerable, if he was putting up with the two groups' daily shitshow for some brilliant personal scheme...

If he and Neo were looking at the score of a lifetime…

But no.

What did he and Neo stand to gain from all this?

Their lives.

Maybe.

If they played their cards right.

And Cinder wasn't feeling feisty.

In the beginning, Neo had some ideas about their peculiar situation. She had far fewer ideas now.

Her first suggestion was that they kill Cinder. It was Neo's go-to plan for just about any problem—and not necessarily a bad one. They could bide their time, strike from the shadows, and take out Cinder when she was most defenseless.

Fortunately for them, before the two could set anything into action, Cinder gave them the opportunity to watch her dispatch three White Fang traitors. With a light touch from her fingers the three faunus were reduced to…well cinders.

The psycho had stared at he and Neo the entire time—before and after setting the faunus alight—just to make certain they understood her crystal message:

 _That_ was what happened to traitors.

It was difficult for Roman to express how grateful he was to Cinder for her little power display. It made the stakes clear before he or Neo could make a tragic error in judgement.

Neo's next idea was a little more reasonable.

Get the hell out of Vale.

Would running still be viewed as a betrayal of Cinder's trust?

Almost certainly.

But, with Neo's semblance, they could easily make themselves so scarce Cinder wouldn't even bother to try and find them.

After that, it would be a simple matter of lying low…

And that's where that idea ended.

Roman didn't do "lying low." Not after he had poured years—years—into cultivating his criminal empire. Vale was his. It was his to run. It was his to play like a…damn fiddle.

The idea of fading into the shadows…

Of leaving his town…

Of giving up his kingdom…

Preposterous.

He glanced to his left, at Neo. The girl was sucking a lollypop, kicking their driver's seat, attempting to garner a reaction.

Gary, though…

Gary was a smart cookie.

He refused to take Neo's bait, having witnessed firsthand what happened when people allowed themselves to be drawn into the diminutive girl's games.

Another reason Roman liked this one.

He was a survivor.

"Sir," called their driver.

Gary's voice was a little nasally and Roman found that irritating but not unbearably so.

Not when Gary could at least do his damn job. He'd gladly embrace a hundred employees who sounded like Gary—if they could each claim bare-minimum competency in some area of their life.

"What is it Gary?"

"We're about to arrive. Is there anything I'll need to approach? Like an ID card or a password?"

Roman laughed. "Will the animals have properly secured our base of operation?" He muttered the question more rhetorically than any other way.

Of course, the answer was a resounding "no."

The animals could not have done an actual decent job.

No.

That was impossible.

 _That_ would require the animals to, for once—for one goddamn time—have avoided critical errors that would exponentially increase his workload.

"We're here," announced Gary. "Is there anyth—"

Roman interrupted the driver. "Quiet!"

His eyes were focused on the massive warehouse before them. He stole a glance at Neo. The building had her rapt attention as well.

Something was up.

Something was wrong.

A minute passed and not a single guard came to check on the car idling outside the building.

Roman didn't even see a guard looking at the vehicle.

In fact, Roman didn't see a single guard at all.

"C'mon," he said, opening his door and sliding out of the vehicle.

Neo follow suit.

Everything was eerily quiet as they made their way across the lot. There wasn't a single guard here.

Roman was struck with an overwhelming sense of wrongness, the kind of sensation that forced a man to move a little slower and proceed with a little more caution.

Neo was probably feeling something similar. Only, wrongness was what the psychopathic girl thrived on. Which meant it put a little pep into her gait—rather than slowing her down. Fortunately, Neo's skipping stride was still only equal to about half of Roman's normal one.

There was no sign of forced entry at the front door. The metal barrier was locked and the light above it was still very much functional.

A good sign.

He reached for the numeric keypad to the right of the door. His fingers found a sticky note. He reluctantly pulled off the piece of paper. It read _Code change-12345678_.

Was someone screwing with him?

Roman reluctantly keyed in the new code.

Sure enough, the door opened.

What Roman noticed first was the dust—the dust he had spent months collecting. It was all still there. The shipping containers hadn't been moved or opened and it appeared as if the locks were still intact.

Roman exhaled roughly when he concluded that the fruits of his labor had, primarily, remained untouched.

Perhaps those church goers weren't completely off base.

Perhaps there was a god.

The second thing that Roman noticed was a shirtless faunus, mask broken, bound and gagged, hanging from the prong of a raised forklift. After noticing the first incapacitated animal, he couldn't help but notice the rest. They were all in various states of undress, bound with the remains of their own clothing. Some were slumped against containers, others were prone on the ground, and still others hung from fixtures, like human art. Most were unconscious, some with broken limbs. A few others were awake and struggling unsuccessfully against their bonds.

A low whistle sounded from behind them.

It was Gary.

"What the hell happened here?"

"Good question Gary."

It was nice to have someone along for the ride who spoke. He'd have to look at Neo to gauge her reaction to all this, and he really didn't feel like taking his eyes off the scene before him.

Roman strode towards the nearest struggling faunus. He yanked the gag roughly out of her mouth. "What the hell happened here?" questioned Roman, echoing his driver's line of questioning.

The dog faunus sucked air for a few seconds before answering in a whimper, "I don't know. We were attacked."

"By who?" asked Roman.

The girl shuddered. "The White Fang!"

Roman stared at her for a few seconds. "You are the White Fang."

"So was he!" exclaimed the girl. "He had a mask and everything!"

Right.

All it took to pass yourself off as a White Fang member was a mask. Infiltration level: easiest.

Then again, whoever had done this had left all the animals breathing. So, maybe he was a White Fang member—or an anti White Fang faunus lover.

Oh god.

Roman blanched.

Did his extremist terrorist organization have an extremist terrorist organization against it?

Was there some Blue Tooth group, dedicated to the downfall of the White Fang?

That would be just his luck.

"Wait—did you say, 'he had a mask'? As in, there was only one of them?"

The girl nodded. "He was so scary!" She was clearly on the verge of tears. "I thought I was going to die when he was tying me up!"

"You weren't unconscious while he was tying you?" said Roman, eyes narrowed.

"W-well…" the girl trailed off. "He was smashing people's faces in. I just thought…maybe he wouldn't do that to me if I laid down and cried…?"

Part of Roman was angry that she hadn't fought to defend the dust. The other part thought she was probably the smartest one in this room.

She likely didn't have aura or combat training, and she watched those who did get absolutely stomped, so she played dead as shit and escaped a beating. In a way, she was one of the few people in the room who had actually come out on top of the battle with this mysterious intruder. At least she didn't get her ass kicked.

Roman straightened. First things first. He needed to do a complete inventory check. Figure out what the…

Roman's train of thought trailed off when the warehouse lights, the bright ones they never used at night because the animals didn't need the brightness, flickered on and off. There was only one place in the building from which those lights could be controlled.

Roman exchanged a look with Neo. They both took off towards the control room. The control room was an office, of sorts, that overlooked the warehouse floors from behind a one-way glass pane.

Roman and Neo laid claim to the room the moment they realized they could separate themselves from the rabble below.

The pair took the dark stairway two steps at a time.

They arrived at the short hall that led to the control room. Roman's eyes widened when he spotted Chainsaw Chet—a White Fang member who Roman had not wanted to remember the name of but had little choice. Chet was…difficult to forget, because of his mass, alliterative nickname, and…extreme weapon choices.

The other reason Roman remembered him because he was one of the most competent.

Yes, he was dumb, and fanatical, and crazy.

But at least he could fight and follow orders.

That was more than could be said about a lot of others around here.

The guy was no huntsman.

But he wasn't a pushover either. At least, he had never looked like one…

Until now.

Perry had been sent through the wall, across from the control room door.

His body was stretched uncomfortably.

His butt, thighs, and most of his back had disappeared into the drywall. He was bent over double, as if he were stretching, reaching for his toes.

And then he was hog-tied in that position—and with the chain from his own chainsaw too.

Roman almost felt bad for the man. As it was, he was mostly just happy for the warning.

Anyone who could put someone Chet's size through a wall, simultaneously knocking the massive faunus out…

Well, it may not have been the ultimate indicator of prowess as a warrior, but it certainly indicated an overwhelming brute strength.

He exchanged a quick glance with Neo. She nodded.

Her umbrella was ready to go.

They both turned to the cracked door of the control room.

Roman leveled Melodic Cudgel.

He opened the door with a kick.

He was immediately assaulted with the most wonderful and most offensive smell.

The scent of _his_ custom cigars—only he wasn't smoking.

Which meant that the bastard had raided his desk drawer.

"You're here!"

It was a voice Roman didn't recognize. The man finished a rotation in the office chair.

It wasn't a face he recognized either.

The man was seated behind the control room desk, covered in monitors.

After a moment of sizing them up, the man spun in the seat with a carefree ease.

"I was beginning to think the two of you might be taking a sick day."

His tone was light, as was his expression—a direct contrast to his scarred face.

"Who the hell are you?" asked Roman. Keeping his weapon trained on the man.

"I'm John."

"What the hell are you doing here?"

The man stopped twirling. His blue eyes latched onto them with a suffocating grip. "Isn't that obvious?" He motioned to the monitors in front of him. They depicted the havoc he had wreaked on the warehouse floor. "I thought the message was pretty clear…"

"You couldn't have been less clear if you were mute and angry all the time."

John grinned at that. "Oh, my bad. You know, the plan was a little vague here, I was just supposed to make an impression—but what the hell does that even mean really? So, originally, I was just going to kill every single White Fang member here, and set this place on fire…"

Roman twitched.

He couldn't help it.

He envisioned months of labor going up in flames.

He envisioned Cinder reducing him and Neo to ashes.

"But then I realized," continued John. "I can't kill all these people. I can't burn all your dust. These are your employees. This is your stock,"

John's voice sounded friendly, compassionate—harmless.

"Which, obviously…"

He shrugged.

Roman stared at John incredulously. He had him fixed down his sights, his finger pulsing, itching to pull the trigger.

John didn't seem all that concerned that he was on the wrong end of Roman's weapon.

"…makes them my employees. And my stock…"

John smiled, as if it was his wedding night.

"…since you work for me now."

 **There you go.**

 **TSOV back in action.**

 **John—I mean Jaune, finally getting that plan moving. I know he's a bit OOC but once we get to some more consistent friendly character relations, I'll be working through some of that OOCness. My next update shall be The Navigator. And then…well…I had this idea for another RWBY story I really want to write but I'm trying to resist the urge—because I mean, finish what I've got right?**

 **But what if the story just bursts out of me like in Alien?**

 **What then?**

 **Beta'd by: Mystery Beta**

 **I got a now: "Pa t r eon dotcomforward-slash vronsurd."**

 **Kay, till next time.**

 **-Vronsurd**


	8. The Fraud, the Felon, and the Faunus

**I got one of these:**

 **Pa tr e on . com (forward slash) vronsurd**

 **So, why on earth am I writing Shield of Vale, even though Guitar Huntsman was supposed to come out next?**

 **I….**

 **Don't know.**

 **I forgot which one I was supposed to update.**

 **Whoops.**

 **Either way, I'm going to actually do that thing I talked about so I don't have a half-year down time again and shorten THESE CHAPTERS.**

 **This may cut down on the cliff hangers and whatnot because I won't be writing until I reach a super dramatic breakpoint.**

 **I'll just aim for a cohesive chapter and then stop. This will, hopefully, allow me to get back to updating _all_ my fanfics.**

 **We'll see.**

 **Anyway: Here's another chapter of TSOV.**

 **Didn't have a lot of time to edit or write a monster Author's note.**

 **Beta'd for content by MysteryBeta.**

 **Chapter 8**

 **The Fraud, the Felon, and the Faunus**

Ozpin exited the infirmary, closing the heavy doors behind him.

He wondered what expression he was wearing.

He tried to untwist his downturned brows and hateful grimace.

He must not have been successful, considering Qrow's next words.

"That bad huh?"

Ozpin slowly met Qrow's gaze. "Your sister has certainly…crossed some lines."

"Goddammit…" muttered Qrow, taking a long swig from his flask. He continued, "what the hell did she do to them?"

"Are you sure that's knowledge you wish to possess?"

"Hell no it isn't. But if Raven needs to have the shit beaten out of her…I suppose that's my job, right?"

"I would be more than willing to help," supplied Glynda, not bothering to hide her outright hatred of the woman who had rendered the two children behind those doors near cationic.

Ozpin massaged his forehead. He could feel a migraine coming on. They had become a more regular occurrence throughout this particular life. That was how it always worked. The headaches would get more painful and frequent the more basic mistakes he made—like giving Raven, the child murderer, magic.

"So…?" Qrow urged.

Right.

His comrades wanted answers.

How best to go about this?

Perhaps the band-aid method?

Rip it straight off?

"Raven murdered their team-leader, in cold-blood, in front of them…"

Qrow froze at that. The man's entire body went rigid, his pupils dilated.

Glynda was almost as still as Qrow, only she was trembling, barely constrained rage boiling just under her concrete lid.

"Another of their teammates was murdered in a trial-by-combat blood-sport type of event."

"Recruitment," whispered Qrow, horror lacing his voice.

"And how does this… _John_ fit into all this?" asked Glynda, from between grating teeth. A vein pulsed dangerously on the side of her neck.

"A huntsman," replied Ozpin, relieved for the temporary reprieve from discussing Raven's atrocities. "He was taken shortly after the kids. He helped them escape. Apparently, Raven insisted that the students couldn't leave without completing fifty fights. John volunteered to take on all fifty simultaneously. The boy said it was a bloodbath."

"I bet it was," said Qrow, more to himself than anyone else. "A bunch of weak-ass cowards against a _real_ huntsman."

Ozpin could not have agreed more. "The children's story certainly confirms your initial impression of our mysterious huntsman."

Qrow nodded. "A warrior. Not a villain. Not necessarily. But dangerous as all get-out."

Ozpin nodded. "Then I hope John is a blade that will continue to stab our foes."

Ozpin kept his face neutral as he spoke but, on the inside, he was calculating.

Of course, he _hoped_ John wouldn't make their efforts his target.

Of course, he _hoped_ that.

Hope just wasn't worth a damn in a situation like this.

John was an unknown factor.

There was no telling what he would or wouldn't do.

And no amount of hope would prevent or change the decisions the man made, especially if he was as strong as witnesses, Qrow included, claimed.

There was no way to be certain of John's allegiances—not without an actual meeting.

Even then, Ozpin was slow to trust new faces.

At least, adult ones.

There was something more reassuring about recruiting children.

Sure, a child could still be a stranger. And a child might be several times more likely to fall early in battle than a properly trained adult.

But at least a child hadn't been alive long enough to be corrupted by the various sources of darkness scattered throughout Remnant.

Analyzing an adult's actions, trying to decipher their intentions…

It was more difficult, by far.

An act like saving a pair of terrified students from Raven's barbaric clutches could easily be interpreted as heroism…

But what if it was no more than a ploy to get into Ozpin's good graces?

Perhaps John wanted to use the kids as a distraction…

Or perhaps he was simply the type with a code that compelled him to help kids… even though he'd still happily set the rest of Vale alight.

This was why Ozpin preferred to groom his soldiers from their youth.

There was less headache over all the other potential bullshit.

"Did John give any indication of where he was going?"

Qrow shook his head. "None. Though he did say he'd come visit us, soon."

"We have more pressing concerns than John's location anyway," said Glynda.

Ozpin sighed. His deputy wasn't wrong. "The intel concerning Lionheart is…disconcerting, to say the least. I've broached concerns with both of you regarding…strange occurrences in Mistral. My suspicions weren't directed at my old friend but…him being turncoat would certainly answer some questions. We'll need to look into it."

"And Raven?" asked Glynda.

"It seems we've left Miss Branwen to her own devices for too long."

"Damn right," muttered Qrow.

"Of course," continued Ozpin. "That doesn't mean we have the resources to deal with her at this time."

Glynda's voice escaped her throat in a growl, "what?"

"Even ignoring John—which I am reluctant to do, I believe investigating the huntsman's claims regarding Lionheart should take priority."

"Raven's amassing an army, and you want to ignore it?" asked Glynda, still struggling to contain her rage.

"I don't think we have a choice in the matter," replied Ozpin. "Raven is far from here—and strong. How many high caliber huntsmen do you suppose we'd need to overcome her? Can we afford to displace so much fighting strength? What if Salem makes a move against the maiden?"

"Shit," said Qrow.

Glynda didn't swear, but her expression implied a similar sentiment.

"Until we know for certain that there is not a traitor amongst our inner circle and that Vale is not under a direct threat from…John and the power of the maiden is secured…I fear we will have to leave Raven to her own devices."

"Ozpin," began Glynda. "Perhaps I can—"

She was interrupted by the infirmary door banging open. It was Clint. An I.V. cart dragged behind him. Bandages covered his torso. The boy's eyes were alight. His hands were curled into tight fists.

Ozpin noted the change in the boy's demeanor. A few moments earlier the young huntsman had seemed worn down, defeated, broken by the deaths of his teammates. Now he was practically radiating anger. His fury was practically visible as a distortion in the air around him.

He must have heard something.

But from the far bed on the other side of this thick door?

How was that even possible…?

Ah. Now that he looked a little closer. The boy was probably a faunus. He had that slight difference in the eye that distinguished his kind when their other traits were less prominent. Whatever his hidden trait was, it must have improved his hearing, a lot.

Clint spoke after yanking violently on his I.V. His voice wasn't particularly loud but there was a violence to it. A quiet scream of outrage.

"Did you say Lionheart is dirty?"

Right.

Lionheart was their headmaster. Hell, he was likely the one who authorized the mission that ended with them in Raven's camp.

"He…" Ozpin trailed off.

What was he supposed to say here?

Qrow finished for him. "He might be kid. John said he was. John could be lying. John could be mistaken."

Clint shook his head slowly. "He's _not_ lying. And I _doubt_ he's mistaken." Clint stared down at his hands for a moment. Then, in a burst of action, he lifted his I.V. cart and hurled it against the wall. Metal clanged and fluid spurted as the needle dislodged from his arm. "That _bastard_. Oh my god…That _bastard_. How could I not see it? All the huntsmen and huntresses going missing…All the…oh god…" Clint stumbled before falling to his hands and knees. "Shit…that bastard. I'm gonna kill him."

Glynda knelt beside Clint, placing a gentle hand on his back as he hyperventilated.

"It wasn't supposed to be our mission…" Clint's sentences were broken by gasps. "It was supposed to be a real huntress...It was supposed to be an experienced huntsman…"

"But…?" prompted Ozpin, a growing sense of dread building in his stomach.

"But there weren't any available. And _he_ said it would be fine. That the mission ranking was a mistake…"

" _Who_ said that…?" asked Ozpin, although he already knew the answer.

Clint brought his forehead to the floor as he answered. "Our headmaster. Lionheart"

I*I*I

"Let me get this straight. I work for you now?" asked Roman.

"That's right," replied John.

"Sorry, I'm still not really clear." Roman started over. "I walked into _my_ office. To find you sitting in _my_ chair. Manhandling _my_ cigar." Roman counted each of these offences on his fingers. "And now _I_ work for _you_?"

"An astute summary of events," said John, smiling broadly. Then he started rustling through Roman's desk drawer. "So, first things first. Where do you keep the little choppy thing for getting rid of the cigar tip?"

"The cutter?" said Roman.

"Ah. Okay. The cutter. Where's that? And how much of the cigar do I cut? Do I just…start in the middle?"

Roman could feel his brain cells dying. He glanced at Neo, his silent companion. She looked just as confused as he felt.

She met his eyes.

He motioned towards their intruder with a couple of head jerks.

Her questioning look grew deeper.

He jerked a bit harder.

She started to imitate him.

"My god, what am I paying you for? Kill him."

Neo's mouth parted into a small "o" as she drove her fist into her palm.

As if she didn't know what he was saying. If it wasn't incompetence, it was insolence. He just couldn't catch a break.

"Kill me?" said John, his voice a mixture of horror and mocking.

Roman's eyes widened when he saw what John was doing now. He hadn't found Roman's cigar cutter, but he had found a small paring knife that Roman used to skin his apples. He was currently slicing Roman's cigar vertically, down the middle.

"What the hell are you doing!?" cried Roman.

"In my defense, I asked for help. I'm not much of a cigar man. I prefer meat."

"Meat?"

"Sausage, hotdogs, burgers, etcetera…"

Roman turned back to the tri-colored girl beside him. "Why isn't he dead yet Neo?"

Neo shrugged, not bothering to hide her amusement.

"Neo's making a wise decision," said John. He took the two perfectly symmetrical halves of the cigar and set them on the desk, meticulously adjusting their positions. "Before you throw away your life trying to kill me. You should listen to what I have to say. After all, I'd _like_ to work with both of you…" John looked up from his work, trying to make the cigar halves parallel. "But I only _need_ one of you." He looked back down at the cigars.

Roman exchanged a swift glance with Neo. They'd both heard it. The ice in John's voice. The iron.

Did it mean he was a threat to two fighters of their caliber?

Not necessarily.

But better safe than sorry.

"Alright," Roman withdrew a cigar from his pocket, cut it, refused to pass John his cutter, and then lit up. "So, talk."

John spun in his chair for a moment more and then stood abruptly. He turned away from them.

Presenting his back to two potential enemies—one of them a total psychopath with an obsession with all things that go stab in the dark—John was either stupid, arrogant, or extremely strong.

"It's been awhile since I was in Vale—in any city really—near human civilization if I'm being honest. I've been on an extended mission, in the Grimmlands. Very important very secret stuff. Critical to the survival of humanity, even... You want that, don't you Roman?"

"What?"

"For humanity to survive?"

"Sounds good to me," sniped Roman. He was already getting irritated by this conversation.

"Really Roman? You really don't want humanity to end?"

"No," replied Roman shortly.

"Could've fooled me, considering the genocidal maniac you're working alongside."

Roman glanced at the short girl by his side. "She's more of a homicidal mani—"

John cut him off as he turned around. "I'm not talking about Neo. I'm talking about Cinder."

"Oh?" Roman perked up at the mention of his least favorite human being. "You know Cinder?"

"Yeah, I'm going to kill her sometime in the next few months."

Roman laughed. "Why not save us all the headache and do it now?"

"I'd love to, I really would. Unfortunately, the picture is a lot bigger than you and Cinder stealing dust. She's already got the ball rolling on several schemes I need to nip in the bud. They happen to be the type that will keep moving with or without her. Plus, she's currently the best link I have to her master."

"You sound as if you know her end game." Roman couldn't keep the interest out of his voice. He'd been working in the dark for months now. Cinder had given little indication what all his efforts were amounting toward. Roman figured it would be something diabolical, perhaps taking over the entire Vale underworld—or something even larger.

He was ill prepared for John's response.

"I do. Mass Grimm incursion. Vale in flames."

Roman waited for John to continue. When the huntsman remained quiet, Roman encouraged him. "That can't be all…there has to be more to it. What does she gain from destroying the city?"

"Cinder's master," began John. "Is on team Grimm. She doesn't want Lien. Or power. Or control. She wants to wipe out every person on Remnant."

"But Cinder is a person," objected Roman.

"A crazy one," replied John.

Roman stole a quick glance at Neo. Her face told him she was just as taken aback as he was.

"Here's the deal Roman." John sat on the desk quite comfortably, legs crossed at his ankles. "I want to work with you to topple Cinder. Now, I don't _need_ you. I don't _need_ either of you." He looked at Neo pointedly. "But I'm not an idealist. I know Vale needs a criminal underworld. And I know someone has to stand at the top. I like you at the top. You don't leave a body trail, you don't burn down orphanages, and you punish people who step out of line and draw attention to your activities. You're precise, and you understand the value of peace…"

"Because I'm on top."

"Precisely. Chaos only benefits the upstarts. And the upstarts do love their chaos." John shook his head, his expression clearly one of distaste. "What they don't understand is that chaos also benefits the Grimm and anything that benefits the Grimm…is bad for us—all of us."

"Couldn't agree more," said Roman.

"Really?" asked John. "You really couldn't agree more?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

"So, you'll work with me then?"

"Well…" Roman drawled. "I didn't say all that, did I?" Roman twirled his cane thoughtfully. "Cinder's my boss right now. I'd hate to betray her trust in me…after all, shit like that can get you killed."

"True," agreed John, standing up and moving behind Roman's desk, fiddling with the cigar he had maimed once again.

"I mean, it's nice of you to offer to help out and all. But honestly…" Roman shared a quick glance with Neo, communicating more in the short exchange of eye contact than he could have with a legion of words. "We've seen what Cinder can do…and I'm sure you're a very strong and brave huntsman. But Cinder is just…"

"On a different level?" John filled in the blank.

Roman stepped away from Neo, circling to John's left. Neo mimicked his motion in the opposite direction, heading towards John's right.

"Basically."

John glanced between Neo and Roman, watching them fan out, face absent of worry. "You sure you want me to prove that Cinder has nothing on me, right now, on you two?" John's hand rested on the edge of the desk. His fingers drummed against the wood.

Roman raised Melodic Cudgel. "That's a risk we're willing to—"

Roman was cut off. Not just his words but his vision too. Suddenly, all he could see was dark wood.

His desk.

 _His_ desk.

It consumed his field of sight as it flipped towards him, various equipment crashing to the floor. Roman dropped, chest hitting the floor hard. It was his only option. It was either that or get crushed by the flying furniture.

By the time the desk crashed into the wall behind him Roman was already pushing himself to his feet. He managed to stand, and then he traveled a few inches higher, his feet leaving the ground, the grip on his throat tightening.

John carried him a few feet backwards and to the right, slamming him into the glass pane overlooking the warehouse floor. The glass cracked but did not give.

Roman stared into his attacker's azure eyes. There was no anger. There was no hate. Only a mixture of boredom, amusement, and impatience.

It was scary as hell.

Roman's gaze flickered past John. He took in his surroundings with panicked urgency.

A broken desk lay a few feet to his left.

Roman was propped up by one hand, John's other hand had a firm grip on Melodic Cudgel.

On the far wall was a head-sized crater. Slumped a few feet beneath it was Neo, unmoving.

"Roman."

John's tone and volume were the same as earlier. But closer now.

Roman turned his attention back to John, only to feel himself involuntarily look back at Neo's prone form. Was she—?

The master-thief's thoughts were interrupted by a stinging slap to the face.

"Eyes on me Roman. Neo's fine. I didn't hit her that hard."

Roman gave John his full attention.

John stared at him silently for a few seconds before he broke out into a small grin. "You almost look like you actually care about her. You guys lovers or something?"

Roman didn't reply, but his sentiments towards that idea must have shown on his face.

"Siblings?"

Roman ignored the question. "What do you want?"

"Well, first. Since you all are working for me now… And your muscle is my muscle…" He nodded towards Neo. "Let her know no matter how confident you are in your speed and flexibility, you never go in on a huntsman like that. Not when she barely has more reach with her sword than I do with my arm." John glanced back at Neo, shaking his head. "She spends too much time playing around with weaklings. She wouldn't have beat me either way, but the way she went down right there…well, it was embarrassing."

Under any other circumstances Roman would have told John to hurry the hell up and get to the point. But while the hand around his throat might not have been cutting off much oxygen. He felt as if it had a stranglehold on his glibness.

"Alright Roman, listen up. I tried to do this the nice way but—well—you're not a nice person so I don't know why I ever thought that would work." John reared Roman back a bit and then slammed him into the glass pane behind him.

Roman resisted the urge to look behind him, at the state of the window he was being propped against. John hadn't slammed him into the glass particularly hard, so it didn't hurt. But the sound of more cracks forming behind him was…disconcerting. To say the least.

How far was the fall to the warehouse floor?

Twenty feet? Twenty-five?

Headfirst?

Aura or no aura. It didn't sound like a good time.

"I'm going to tell you about myself Roman. Would you like to hear?"

The grip tightened on Roman's throat gradually until he nodded emphatically.

"Great," began John. "I'm going to start by telling you a bit about yourself. Would you like to hear what I have to say?"

Roman nodded without encouragement this time.

"You're not a huntsman Roman. Neither is sleeping beauty over there. Neither is Cinder." John shook his head slowly. "Now I know you guys have probably forgotten that fact, while you're screwing over civvies without aura and playing around with amateurish terrorists." John rolled his eyes. "And it probably doesn't help that you all have taken on some of these city-dwelling time-of-peace glorified-police-officer _huntsmen_ and won. That's the kind of shit that makes people forget that there are individuals out there, like me, who fucking _hunt_ Grimm."

Roman gasped when John slammed him into the glass pane, harder this time. He heard more cracks form.

"I don't sit around, waiting for an attack. I don't fight Beowolves in my free time. I don't work in the forest and sleep in a warm bed. I find the biggest, scariest, most lethal Grimm I can, and I kill it. Rinse. Repeat. Over and over and over again."

Roman felt something crawling down the inside of his spine. It was an icy burning sensation, like what he felt when Cinder displayed her ability to reduce people to ashes.

Only, somehow, this was worse.

"Today," continued John. "I'm hunting Cinder Fall. Well, really, I'm hunting her master. But that's not something you need to be concerned over. Here's what you _do_ need to think about." John began pushing Roman against the windows. Roman could hear the damaged glass beginning to give way. "Cinder strikes me as the type who hates loose ends. Which means you'll be dead the moment she deems you not useful."

Roman nodded slowly.

"Now, as I've already explained, I like the way you run Vale's streets. You're part of the organism. Even as a criminal you help maintain order."

Roman nodded again.

"Cinder doesn't care about that order. As a matter of fact, she doesn't plan on leaving any streets to be run." John tilted his head to the side. "But I don't need to tell you all this, I'm sure you're already well aware that there's an expiration date on your relationship—and your life."

Roman realized John wanted something other than more nodding when the huntsman paused, staring at him expectantly.

"Yeah, I've been…worried about that."

"Of course, you have been. You want to live. The only thing you want as much as that is to keep your empire. That's important to you. Keeping your empire. Otherwise, when you realized how dangerous Cinder is you would've disappeared. Moved to Mistral or something."

Roman swallowed. For an instant his Adam's apple pressed more firmly against John's palm.

Roman wasn't all that impressed by the fact that John had him pegged.

It didn't take a rocket scientist's intellect to figure out why Roman chose to stick around, even though Cinder was, as John so aptly put it, a genocidal maniac.

But, while Roman wasn't impressed by John's insight, he was concerned.

All it took to manipulate a mark was understanding of that mark. Roman didn't like being understood. He especially didn't like being understood by people of whom he couldn't fathom the intent.

There was a vulnerability to it that he despised. Almost as if he was unarmed, wearing a shirt that read "Future Victim," while his opponent was carrying an automatic weapon and wearing chain mail.

"So, here's how I see it," continued John. "Say you accept my offer—because I mean, we've already established you want to live, right? _But_ you don't really want to work with me. So, you decide to tell Cinder about this conversation, about me. Cinder says she'll handle it. She starts playing her cards a little more conservatively because now she knows I'm coming for her. You keep working with Cinder. One day your usefulness comes to an end and she burns you alive. Or maybe—you fail her one too many times. And she kills you slowly, burning you limb by limb. Who knows? She's a sadistic bitch…"

John trailed off for a moment.

Roman watched his eyes, they were seemingly focused on Roman's throat.

John's eyes snapped back up to his own.

"If I set you down will you promise to keep feeling threatened? I'd love to keep you up here for the whole thing, maybe bust this glass and dangle you out the window upside-down, but my hand's falling asleep, and if I try to do all that I might just drop you on your neck…"

"Yeah," replied Roman. "I'll still feel hella threatened."

"Great." John dropped him unceremoniously.

Roman slid down the glass, landing on his bottom hard.

"Now," continued John, crouching so he was face-to-face with Roman. "I still kill Cinder in this scenario, eventually. But it takes longer. Because I don't have your help. Once I put an end to Cinder's plans, Vale falls into chaos. Your criminal empire starts getting divided amongst the upstarts. Of course, I can't leave Vale in that state so…" John frowned. "I'll have to waste a bunch of time finding myself a new master-thief to run this city's underworld, so things don't descend into complete anarchy."

Roman hated how easily he could envision the mental image John was painting.

"Now, that's the road I fear we're currently on. And it's an annoying one. For both of us. But let me show you another way. Another path you can take." Jaune motioned off into the distance, as if he was pointing towards a tangible vision he wished for Roman to see. "You work with me. You tell me exactly where Cinder is and what she's doing at any given time. In return I'll be putting enough cracks in Cinder's little plan that she'll have a place for _you_ …"

Roman flinched when John firmly pressed his pointer finger into his forehead.

"…until the day I cut out her heart. You live. You keep your empire. She dies. She loses everything. And I get to go back to into the wilderness and kill Grimm to my heart's content—the moment I'm done hunting her."

Well.

 _If_ those were the only two options, then of course Roman wanted option number two.

But were those the only two options?

Were they really?

"Are you thinking about it? Wondering if there's some other way this could all go down?"

Roman didn't see much point in lying to the man. "Yes."

John exhaled. He straightened to his full height, stepping away from Roman. With a sharp rap of his knuckles he shattered the glass window that he had bludgeoned with Roman's body. He watched the glass fall to the warehouse floor.

Roman watched him, worried he'd be following that glass.

"You don't trust me. Which is fine. I wouldn't expect you to trust me. Allow me to…simplify the equation for you. I don't need _you_ for _me_ to kill Cinder. I'll kill her with or without you. With you in the way or with you by my side. It doesn't matter. I _will_ kill Cinder Fall." John paused, probably to let the claim sink in. "The reason why I'm here is because I want to work with you. I want to get this done quickly and cleanly. That's why I didn't kill your partner." John motioned toward Neo's collapsed form. "I figured that would set the wrong tone for a mutually beneficial relationship."

"Or you just need her semblance," muttered Roman.

John chuckled. "Illusions? Teleportation? I'm not a trickster Roman. I'm not a liar. And I'm not a thief. I have no desire for Neo's semblance. It's hard to believe you haven't noticed but…" John turned away from the broken window, looking down at Roman. "…I'm a pretty straightforward guy. I say what I mean, and I mean what I say. So, when I say I'm going to kill Cinder and when I say that afterward you get to go back to doing what you do. I mean that."

Roman stared at the huntsman.

He believed him.

He didn't trust him or anything.

That would be ludicrous.

But he believed the words that the man was currently vomiting.

It was a gut thing.

Roman did business with plenty of unpleasant and unsavory people. People he would never trust. Not in a million years.

But just because they were liars… And just because they had gone back on deals… Or stabbed people in the back…

None of that meant they weren't telling the truth at any given time.

Normally Roman would research. He'd find out who they were. What their situation was like. What their intentions were for their business deal. He'd perform a deep dive on every single aspect of that person, sniffing out the lies and truths of the moment.

Sometimes all that research would yield definitive evidence, a definite conclusion.

And other times, it culminated in nothing more than a gut feeling. A sensation that told him to proceed or turnback.

And what was his stomach telling him right now?

"Shit."

John stretched his arms upwards and yawned. "I need to get going. I had a long day. Had to fight off a bandit horde. Threaten Junior. Hike all over this awful city. And then this nonsense…"

John strode over to Neo. He bent down.

Roman's heart stopped for a moment.

Was he going to kill her?

Was he going to take her with him?

Jaune straightened, a scroll in his hand.

Neo's scroll.

"I've been in the wilderness for a while. So, no scroll. Is it safe to assume you have her number?"

Roman's head moved up and down mechanically. Neo was _not_ going to be happy about this. But, then again, she'd probably be angrier about the way John had used her head to remodel Roman's office.

"I'll be in touch. I suggest you tell Cinder some rogue huntsman did this to the White Fang. And that you and Neo just barely managed to fight him off. I would not recommend telling her much more than that but…hey, it's your life."

John walked towards the exit.

He spared Roman one last glance.

"It's up to you how you want to lose it."

And then he was gone.

I*I*I

Jaune wondered what Roman would do as he tromped down the steps.

He was sure he'd put the fear of god in him.

Which was good.

It was possible the thief even feared "John" more than he feared Cinder.

Of course, there was always a chance that the thief would still tell Cinder everything.

But Jaune found that incredibly unlikely, as had Weiss when they were brainstorming the steps. Roman was the type of crook who was always looking for an angle. Always, searching for a way to come out on top. Rather than try to prove his loyalty to Cinder by confessing, Roman was more likely to attempt some sort of grand double-cross, playing off the two of them to come out on top.

That was more likely than him confessing.

But was it most likely out of _every_ possibility?

Not if Jaune did his job correctly.

Not if, even now, Roman was trying to calm his terrified heart and quell his trembling fingers.

No.

If Jaune did his job correctly there were two likely outcomes.

Roman would either work with him or Roman would run.

While Jaune preferred the former, the latter was not without its benefits as well. After all, Roman's disappearance, especially this early on in Cinder's machinations would certainly throw a wrench into her plans.

Jaune arrived at the warehouse floor. He noticed several of the White Fang members he had knocked out and tied up were now struggling against their bonds. They froze when they spotted him. He ignored most of them.

Then he spotted a female dog faunus who had just about worked her way out of her bonds. He recognized her as the one he had tied up without knocking out, since the closest she came to resisting was curling up in a ball and weeping.

When she spotted him, staring at her intently, she froze. Her gag was around her neck, allowing her teeth to clack audibly as she shook.

Jaune approached her. The woman screamed, attempting to wiggle away from Jaune. The sight might have been comical if Jaune wasn't already so done with the day. He stopped the fleeing faunus by grabbing the restraints around her wrists.

"Hold still."

The woman obliged as best she could, her body still shaking with fright.

The faunus wailed when Jaune withdrew Crocea Mors.

"What's your name?" asked Jaune, as he carefully cut the cloth binding her hands and then went for cloth around her ankles and knees.

"P-Pip."

"Pip?" repeated Jaune.

Pip nodded.

Jaune straightened. "Can you stand Pip?"

Pip tried. She really did. Jaune could tell. But a combination of a lack of blood flow and sheer terror rendered her a limp mess.

Jaune reached for her, to help her up.

She threw herself away from his hand, on the verge of hyperventilating.

Jaune sighed. He wasn't in the habit of feeling much pity or empathy for his enemies.

If Pip hadn't been lucky enough to have an emotional breakdown the moment he broke into this warehouse, he'd have smashed her face just like he did to every other White Fang member in the building.

Still, he couldn't help but feel a little bad about the effect he was having on her. A civilian who had gotten involved in a terrorist organization, thinking that she was fighting for justice, for the liberation of her people…

And suddenly she's facing down an opponent who could kill her effortlessly, without so much as a pause.

A huntsman.

She was in over her head. And it was only going to get worse.

Before Jaune quite knew what he was doing he reached for her again, grabbing her this time. She tried to escape, but Jaune barely registered her efforts. He picked her up, her legs draped over one arm and her back cradled in his other.

Wordlessly, he headed for the door.

Pip struggled, for a moment. But she must have realized how useless it was because, eventually, she stopped moving. Instead, she opted to turn her head into him and cry softly.

Jaune exited the warehouse.

He glanced up at the shattered moon.

It was the same moon he and Ruby and Weiss had stared up at in the future, at his home, just a few feet away from the graves of his family.

He'd save them.

His family.

Ruby.

Weiss.

Pyrrha.

Ren.

Nora.

Blake.

Yang.

Glynda.

Qrow.

Taiyang.

Winter.

James.

Cardin.

Sky.

Dove.

Russel.

Velvet.

Coco.

Yatsuhashi.

Fox.

Even Ozpin.

This time around, he was strong. He would save all of them. As well as a few other people as well.

Namely, every person on Remnant.

Starting, he supposed, with Pip.

He continued walking, somewhat lost in thought. Then he realized that he was still holding Pip, and that he had left the relatively barren warehouse region of Vale and was entering more populated areas.

"You can stop crying. I'm not going to hurt you."

Jaune looked around. There were a few people walking by on the dimly lit streets, but no one paying him any mind. Still, better safe than sorry.

"Can you walk now?"

Pip muttered something but Jaune couldn't quite make it out.

"My hearing isn't as good as yours Pip. You need to speak up."

"I said 'yes'," said Pip.

Jaune lowered the faunus to her feet. She was immediately unstable, Jaune caught her arm to prevent her from falling.

He released her when she regained her balance and strength.

"So, can you talk now Pip?"

Pip nodded.

"Pip," Jaune tasted the name. "Is that short for anything?"

The faunus shook her head.

"Well, Pip. You have a family?"

Pip nodded.

"You live with them?"

Pip shook her head.

"I see. Then let's go."

Pip nodded. Again.

Jaune didn't move.

Pip stared at him expectantly. He looked at her with, no doubt, a similar expression.

The staring contest went on for nearly a minute until she finally squeaked, "where are we going?"

Jaune didn't miss a beat. "Your place."

Pip paled. "M-my place?"

"Do you expect me to sleep outside?" asked Jaune.

Pip clearly had no idea how to answer that "I-I well."

"Let's walk and talk."

With tangible reluctance Pip began to walk. Not much talking took place as they made their way through the city. Jaune was relatively distracted. Between keeping an eye on Pip, who wasn't even attempting to mask her open vigilance for an escape opportunity and staying aware of his surroundings he was fully engaged.

When they entered a lower income residential area, a neighborhood that was mostly composed of faunus Jaune felt it.

A distinct sensation of being watched, as if someone was paying close attention to him.

He kept his eyes peeled for any all-too-interested bystanders. He spotted a few individuals giving he and Pip second glances but, as far as he could tell, no one was tailing them…

Well…no civilian was tailing them. A particularly stealthy individual, like Neo, could probably raise his hackles without ever giving any physical indication as to her location.

But it couldn't be Neo, could it?

She was probably still unconscious.

Jaune was dragged out of his considerations by men staggering in their path. They were all faunus. And they were all drunk.

Very much so.

There was no reason Jaune and Pip couldn't just walk around them and be on their way.

But Pip smelled a chance. "Hey!" She sprung forward.

Jaune's hand jerked forward in an automatic reaction. He didn't mean to grab her arm and pull her into him. It just happened.

Pip released a small "eep." When she collided with Jaune's solid frame.

Jaune hoped the small display of aggression would escape the drunks' attention.

But of course it didn't.

"Hey," slurred one. "Is this guy giving you problems?"

Jaune didn't let Pip answer. Who knew what she would say if she thought it would help her escape?

"She's my sister. And she's drunk. I'm just helping her home."

"Sister…?" the man on the left repeated, glancing at Pip's rather obvious faunus trait and then studying Jaune. "You…" he belched. "You look like a human to me."

"I am. She was adopted. Got a problem?"

The leader of the drunks, the one who spoke, burst into laughter. "Humans, adopting a faunus?" He laughed some more. "You must think we're stupid."

Jaune turned to Pip. "Well…are you going to tell them that you were adopted or not?"

Pip stared at the hand gripping her arm for a moment, likely considering if there was any way she could break free. She exhaled deeply when she made her decision. "He's my brother. I was adopted when I was younger."

"There you go," said Jaune.

"I still don't believe you," slurred the leader. He approached. "I bet you're just making her say that." The faunus's approach halted when Jaune revealed a bit of his blade.

"Listen. You're drunk. I'm a huntsman. And I'm escorting my sister home. Doctor fees might cut into your drinking money. So, I suggest we go our separate ways."

The talkative drunk stared at Jaune. For a moment, it seemed he was about to make a counter-suggestion. But, fortunately, the third drunk, who had yet to speak, was a more thoughtful alcoholic.

"Let 'em go man. It's not worth it."

After a few seconds of hurried conversation, the drunken group parted.

Jaune and Pip passed down the middle.

Once they had put some distance between them, Jaune spoke. "You shouldn't use innocent bystanders as fodder. You saw what I can do at the warehouse."

"I thought better of it," replied Pip, huffing.

"Mmm did you…?" Jaune trailed off as he once again felt eyes on him.

He glanced around casually. He didn't see anyone.

Was he just being paranoid?

Or were they being followed?

"We're here," Pip announced, when they arrived at a rather beat down apartment building.

"Lead the way," Jaune motioned towards the building's entrance.

Pip's apartment was on the fourth floor. The building's elevator was out of service, so they had to take the stairs. Pip moved slower and slower with every step they drew closer to her apartment. No doubt because she thought she was leading her killer to the spot he would murder her. Or perhaps something even worse.

Jaune would do his best to allay those fears once they were safely in her home. For now, he kept his head on the swivel, just in case Neo really had managed to wake up shortly after he left the room and had followed him all the way here.

"This is so messed up," mumbled Pip as she fiddled with her keys.

"Yeah, well…" said Jaune, staring into the darkness of the hall they had just walked down. "You can't call the police when the strange man who followed you home followed you home from your terrorist activities."

"I'm a faunus," Pip replied, sliding her key into the lock and opening the door. "I can't call the police either way."

Jaune turned, stepping into the door way. Pip flicked on a light switch, located by the entrance. The sudden burst of illumination lit up Jaune and a bit of the hallway.

Then he heard it, the sound of rapid movement, the whistle of a blade.

He ducked and whirled simultaneously, reaching out for where he was certain his attacker would be.

His speed would surprise them. It always did.

How could such a big guy be so fast?

How many of his enemies had _that_ as their last thought?

As expected, his assailant wasn't ready for his rapid response. One hand grabbed ahold of an arm. The other wrapped around a slim waist. Keeping his momentum from his initial reaction, he stepped away from the door and slammed his attacker into the wall, pinning their body with his own.

The attacker writhed against him for a moment, attempting to get free. They were nowhere near as strong as him, but they were still substantially stronger than Pip. They were also bigger than Neo, quite a bit bigger, although that wasn't saying much.

Jaune figured the easiest way to take the fight out of them was to cut a couple of tendons. After that he could take his time and ask the important questions.

"I won't let you hurt her!" a distinctly feminine voice hissed.

A distinctly _familiar_ feminine voice.

Jaune let his blade slide back into his belt, instead applying a bit more pressure so that his attacker wouldn't escape.

He wasn't trying to smother her.

But it was obvious that was exactly what she thought he was trying to do as she ramped up her struggling.

Jaune blinked a few times, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light escaping from Pip's apartment. Then he back off the girl he had pressed against the wall, only to grab her wrists and pin them above her. Like this he only needed to keep his lower body against hers, just enough to keep her from kicking. He was free to lean his upper body back and get a look at her face.

He found himself staring into the blazing eyes of one very furious cat faunus.

"Monster," she hissed, struggling against the hands holding her wrists.

Jaune remembered the last time he had seen Blake. Or rather, the last time he had seen a part of her, presented by Salem as a twisted gift.

His eyes drifted to her ears, currently concealed by her bow. He had the strangest urge to undo that bow. To see that they were still there. That the queen of Grimm hadn't cut them off her. So, he transferred his grip on her wrists to one hand and undid her bow with the other.

Blake froze when he started fiddling with her bow.

"What are you doing!?" said Blake, horror plain in her voice.

Jaune felt bad when Blake's feline features went free. He knew the girl hid them for a reason.

But he couldn't feel that bad, because he was just so happy to see them still attached.

"I figured you were a friend of Pip's. Looks like I was right."

"I don't know her!" replied Blake. "We don't all know each other!"

"Then why'd you attack me?" asked Jaune.

"Just because I don't know her, doesn't mean I'll let you rape her!"

Jaune stared down into Blake's rage-filled eyes. He had to resist the urge to laugh or to shout with glee. Everything about her was still the same. From her ears, to her bat-shit crazy levels of self-enforced justice.

Here she was furious, unbending, even though she had realized thirty seconds ago that she didn't have enough strength in both her arms to break his one-handed grip.

This was the Blake he remembered.

It was beautiful.

The question of course, remained, what the hell was he going to do with her?

Should he…?

Screw it.

"Seems there are some misunderstandings," said Jaune suppressing a smile. "Let's clear those up. Pip. Catch." He half threw, half shoved Blake towards Pip. As expected, Blake bowled the woman over. Also as expected, Blake wrapped her arms around the faunus protectively and rotated so that she would take the brunt of the fall on her aura enhanced back.

Jaune glanced around the dark hallway once more. Then he entered the apartment. Shutting the door behind him.

 **So, shorter chapter style. Meaning more updates. Hopefully. Not as strong a cliff hanger maybe? But overall not too bad I suppose?**

 **I know people are reading this with mixed emotions. I keep having Jaune interact with O.C's like Clint, Vul, his family, Chrom, and now Pip. Fortunately I take time to craft real interesting characters and not random self inserts so people tolerate it.**

 **But I know People want some O.G. characters.**

 **Blake Belladonna HAS JOINED THE BATTLE!**

 **Pa tr e on . com (forward slash) vronsurd**

 **Hope you enjoyed.**

 **Beta = MysteryBeta**


	9. The Faunus Feels Funny

**Shield of Vale Chapter 9**

 **The Faunus Feels Funny**

 **Pa tr e on . com (forward slash) vronsurd**

 **Why another chapter of this and not one of my other fics…?**

 **Because it was on the brain.**

 **And it was on the brain because of Fate. You know who you are.**

 **Truth be told, I had an insane workload over the last few months. I've been working, taking classes, editing and publishing a memoir, and I've been strangely obsessed with machine learning and A.I. construction.**

 **So, I'm going with whatever's flowing most naturally. And that just so happens to be this fic, go figure.**

 **I will get back to Guitar Huntsman and the Navigator and all that good stuff.**

 **Just have to do this first.**

 **I got some worried messages after the last chapter. Some people thought my ending seemed to imply that Jaune was about to rape Pip and Blake. I know I wrote Blake to think that was happening. That Jaune was behaving…rapey. I didn't realize I left it so open ended that some readers assumed the same.**

 **Jaune will not be raping anyone in this fic.**

 **Except his enemies.**

 **Metaphorically.**

 **Hopefully that appeases those of you who were worried…**

 **And apologies to those of you who were excited.**

 **I know I said I'm going to be shortening these chapters…**

 **Somehow, this might be the longest one yet.**

 **Whatever.**

 **Didn't have a lot of time for editing so please forgive mistakes.**

 **Thanks.**

 **Without further ado…**

"Is something wrong?" growled Adam.

The masked individual on his scroll shook his head. "I'm not in danger—if that's what you're asking. I'm calling early because—well—I figured this is information you'd want as soon as possible."

Adam nodded, glad to hear that Trill hadn't been compromised.

Technically, neither that bitch Cinder nor her bitch Roman had any right to interfere with intelligence gathering among his own men—not when they were, supposedly, his "allies."

But he'd sent one of his best—Trill—nonetheless.

Money…

Drinks…

Threats…

Murder…

There were too many ways to gain the cooperation from a lesser faunus.

That's why he couldn't rely on reports from the company he had assigned to help Roman. They were just a bunch of faceless troops. Unknown motivations. Unknown loyalties.

Trill, on the other hand…

Trill was loyal to the cause. Loyal to him. And the bat-faunus' natural inclination for deception and stealth made him optimal for this sort of assignment.

All and all, there was less chance of Cinder cutting him out of the information loop if he had a skilled informant.

"What's she done now?" questioned Adam.

"It's not her. Not this time."

"Roman?"

"Well…" Trill paused. "It involves him, yeah. But it's more than that. There's a new player."

Adam flinched. It was the sort of reaction he normally suppressed. After all, he couldn't afford to show weakness—not to those he led and not to his enemies either. The only person he'd have been fine with seeing the minute display of vulnerability had abandoned him mid-mission. Had abandoned all of faunus kind mid-mission.

Blake…

A surge of fire raced through his veins, boiling his blood.

He clamped down on that anger. Suppressing the wildfire into a something a little more manageable. A little more confined.

He was sure it still showed on his face—just like the flinch.

But that was fine.

Since Trill wouldn't be able to see such minute responses through the scroll and behind his mask.

"A friend of Cinders?" asked Adam.

"I don't think so," replied Trill. "If he is, he's certainly not on the same page. He's making life miserable for Roman."

"And Cinder isn't?" said Adam.

"Touché," said Trill. "But this is different. His name's John. First day he showed up, it was at our offload site. Just walked right in and started dropping faunus like hot potatoes—"

"You saw this?" interrupted Adam.

"No. I was tailing Roman at the time. Needed complete radio silence so his little psycho wouldn't detect me. I followed them all the way to the warehouse, but I couldn't go inside. Might have attracted some suspicion: showing up late for work, arriving at the same time as them, and being completely uninjured? No telling what conclusions they would have drawn from that. Better to just be out sick that day."

Adam nodded. This was why he liked Trill. He was brave, loyal, good at what he did, and had the instincts of a trained combatant.

He wasn't much to speak of in a fight. But he was smart enough to never get in one. There was something…wonderful about working with people who had a brain.

"So, he wiped out some of our brothers and sisters?"

"Well…I wouldn't say _some of_. Not when _all of_ is more accurate."

All of them?

It wasn't a particularly impressive feat. Adam could easily do the same. Someone significantly weaker than Adam could likely accomplish it.

Still, it meant they were dealing with a well-trained combatant.

Which left an uncomfortable range of possibilities for this new player's capabilities. Was he weaker than Adam? Somewhere around Blake's power level? Or was he as strong—if not stronger?

There was only one way to find out.

"Trill, when was this? And how many did we lose? What kind of injuries did they succumb to? Is there any evidence of his semblance?"

"It happened a night ago…" began Trill.

Adam's mind raced.

Twenty-four hours. So not the freshest intel—but not too old either. Still actionable—albeit not without some contingency planning.

"…and we only lost one."

Adam's brain froze.

One.

One?

Had he heard Trill correctly?

"One?"

"Yes, no fatalities."

"Except for one."

"Well," began Trill. "Not exactly. He didn't kill her. At least not at the warehouse. He picked her up and took her with him."

"Why?"

"Dunno. Maybe she was cute? I'm having trouble figuring out who she was—and since it's been two days with no sign of her…"

"She's probably dead."

"Wouldn't be surprised."

"Okay…" Adam drawled.

So, this human—John—had taken one of theirs with him. Probably for information. Although possibly for something else. He had decimated the company Adam assigned to assist Roman. As far as they knew, he hadn't killed anyone…

"What kind of fighter is he?"

"Swordsman. Carried a broken sword."

A swordsman huh?

Adam prided himself on knowing a bit about swordsmanship.

"What kind of sword?" he asked.

"A…damaged one?" replied Trill.

Adam let his displeasure at the unhelpful response be known through silence.

Trill exhaled loudly. "Unfortunately, none of the witnesses know enough about weapons to identify anything about the blade. I saw him and his sword—but only from a distance."

"Did you follow him?"

"No. Because that wasn't—"

"—the mission. I know." Adam sighed. Trill was good. A lesser soldier might have gotten sidetracked. In this case, Adam might have preferred if Trill had gotten sidetracked…

But he knew that was just his curiosity speaking.

Keeping an eye on Roman. Making sure he and Cinder weren't conspiring against the White Fang. That took priority above all else.

"Doesn't help that they didn't get to see him use it," continued Trill.

"They didn't get to see him use what? The sword?" asked Adam, confused by the statement. Even if it was dark—it was never that dark. So dark that a faunus couldn't see the glint of a blade? Not in Vale. Not anywhere with the moon, stars, or windows.

"Nope. He just left it on his hip—although he didn't have a sheath. I mean you'd expect them to have a better idea of what it looked like and what it could do since it wasn't in a sheath. Just goes to show you that—"

Adam cut off the nocturnal faunus before he could start rambling. Trill loved to get chatty at night. The absence of the sun seemed to energize him.

"How many are still able-bodied?"

Trill silently considered the question. Then he replied, "Everyone, mostly. Aside from the missing girl. There're some broken bones and bruises, but I'd say only five or six with injuries serious enough to warrant they go home."

Adam looked skyward, digesting the information.

That strength range he had been considering earlier—John was clearly on the upper end.

While anyone unfamiliar with real combat would be more impressed by a bloody slaughter than bumps and bruises, Adam was no fool.

It took an inordinate amount of strength to respond to lethal force—guns, knives, and killing intent—with a casual low-damage rebuff.

The first rule of fighting a large group of assailants was making sure each one you took down, stayed down. That way you ended the battle before you ran out of stamina. For most warriors that meant whittling away at a group with maiming or killing blows. Dropping one member after another—insuring that each strike resulted in an opponent permanently removed from the fight.

Holding back resulted in getting shot in the back.

That's the mindset most successful warriors took when fighting a group.

Of course, you didn't _have_ to play by those rules. Not if you were strong enough to flout them.

If you felt no compunction to worry about fallen foes rising…

And, for whatever reason, you didn't feel like killing your enemies…

You could just punch away—gently, ensuring you didn't obliterate your foes—until everyone was incapacitated around you.

This could be done one of two ways.

Extreme speed, allowing you to easily avoid damage. Or a juggernaut load of aura, allowing you to tank every bullet, strike, and blow that comes your way.

Either one meant this new player was a serious threat. Discovering his agenda would be of the utmost priority. Was he an enemy of the Fang? Or an enemy of Cinder? Just because they were currently allied didn't mean they had to share opposition.

If John was significantly dangerous—but only wanted Cinder's head—than Adam would be more than happy to stay out of it. He was having second thoughts about the arrangement with the treacherous woman anyway.

Her promises were…almost too good to be true. Plus, he was beginning to think Blake's betrayal may be influencing his decision-making. He was angry. Angrier than he had ever been at humans. And it was because of a fellow faunus.

Could that be twisting his ideals? Working with humans—no matter what they promised—was an, admittedly, odd choice. Not just for the White Fang. But for himself.

Adam glanced down, remembering he was still on a call. Trill's silence meant he was waiting for a response.

"Keep me posted Trill. I want a full report. Everything you can find out about John."

Adam could feel a headache coming on. Between Blake's betrayal, this new player's unknown goals, and Cinder's dubious aims, there was a lot for him to consider.

Why did things never get simpler?

"Wait!"

Trill's exclamation stopped Adam's thumb, an inch from the "end call" button.

"What?"

"It seemed like you were about to hang up," said Trill. "I haven't shared the most important intel yet."

"More important than the attack?" asked Adam, not bothering to hide his disbelief.

"I think so, yeah."

"Go ahead."

"John showed up again. Tonight. He was meeting with Roman—"

"At the warehouse?" cut in Adam.

"No, I followed him to Junior's club. They went in the back. I couldn't follow them past the dance floor, so I don't know what they were discussing. But the fact that they were discussing anything…" Trill trailed off.

"Means that they're in league," Adam concluded.

"Yep. And I don't think Cinder is involved. Because Roman was careful. And when I say careful, I don't mean the he-doubled-back-to-make-sure-he-wasn't-being-followed kind of careful. I mean he-used-multiple-identical-cars-going-in-different-directions kind of careful. Then he drove the vehicle he was in the wrong way, to the very edge of Vale. And then Neo teleported them to the club. I don't think he did all that because he suspects we're spying on him. We're too incompetent. He thinks everyone you gave him is stupid—"

"He's not entirely wrong," interjected Adam.

"Of course not, why would you give _him_ our best and brightest?"

Adam fought off a grin—since his mouth was visible.

Why indeed?

Trill continued. "Anyway. He doesn't seem all that concerned with the White Fang. As insulting as that sounds, it's been making my job a hell-of-a lot easier. And it's why I'm sure the shell game was for Cinder's benefit. He doesn't want her to track him. And if she was tracking him, I'd say his ploy probably worked. Only reason I could keep up was my semblance."

Adam scratched his chin, thoughtful. Trill delivered, as always. And his analysis of the information he had gathered was on point, as always.

The first could be credited to the faunus' powerful semblance, aura-echolocation, allowing him to track the aura of an individual he was locked onto from miles away.

The second could be credited to the fact that Trill was a thinker. He was a follower too. But he wasn't a sheep.

Oum, Adam hated sheep.

"This is incredible work Trill. There's an opportunity here. We just have to find it."

"You're not going to tell Cinder that Roman may have betrayed her?" asked Trill. "If he messes everything up, won't that impact us as well?"

Adam shook his head. "Cinder's plans hold merit, admittedly. And Roman's role in those plans is important. But neither of them is our ally. Their anger is not our anger. Their war is not our war. We fight for faunus; they fight for themselves. If they destroy each other, and we pocket every ounce of dust in that warehouse…" Adam shrugged. "I'd call that a pretty fruitful venture, wouldn't you?"

Trill whistled. "That's why you're the boss. With that much dust we could…huh...I guess we could do pretty much anything."

"Keep me updated on this Trill. I need to know relevant information as soon as you have the opportunity to send it."

"Well," began Trill. "There's still one more thing—and I figured you'd probably want to do the rest of the reconnaissance in person once you heard it…"

Adam snorted.

"I highly doubt that."

Adam was confident in his abilities as a leader and a warrior, but he was under no illusions about his stealth and spy-work.

He wasn't incapable of hunkering down for a stake out. But his patience evaporated quickly. And his decisive personality sometimes led him on less than subtle paths before he weighed the pros and cons of his choices.

Still, one never knew. Maybe Trill had witnessed a flying pet Beowulf. Or some other absurd curiosity. Something Adam would have to see to believe.

Trill remained silent for a few dramatic seconds.

Perhaps he was waiting for Adam to ask. Adam didn't indulge him.

Finally, Trill spoke. "At the club. At the meeting. Blake Belladonna was with John."

Adam swore as his scroll slipped from his fingers. He managed to grab the device before it hit the ground.

"You're sure?" he barely recognized his own voice. His tone was more animal growl than human intonation.

"Saw her clear as day."

"Are you sure she's _with_ John?" asked Adam.

Why was it so hard to speak from behind grinding teeth?

"I heard her call his name before they disappeared in the back of the club. He responded. That's the only reason I know what to call him."

Adam grunted. They were on a first-name basis? That was strong evidence.

"I was torn, after the meeting. You know how my semblance works. If I'm locked onto an aura, I can track a person from miles away. But only one at a time. Once I drop that connection, I can't reinstate it until that person's in front of me again. I know Roman and Cinder are the mission, but I assumed, given the new developments, you'd want me to follow Blake."

Adam nodded.

Damn straight he wanted him to follow Blake.

"I latched onto Blake's aura. Followed her and John to an apartment building."

The camera rotated. Adam studied the rundown structure. It was the sort of awful housing that faunus were reduced to in Vale. Well…really it was the sort of awful housing that the poor were reduced to in Vale. But _faunus_ and _poor_ were practically one-way synonyms in three of the four kingdoms. Vacuo was better. But not much. And Mistral had the rare exception—like Lionheart—but emphasis on the word _rare_.

"They stopped at a grocery store and a bookstore on their way back. Blake hasn't left since then. John may have, since I'm not latched onto his aura. But only if he was sneaky about it."

Adam's brain raced. His heart pounded.

He had been angry at Blake for a while now.

Angry at her for leaving the White Fang. Angry at her for giving up the cause. Angry at her for leaving him mid-mission.

But this new surge of anger topped all the others.

It was mixed with something else. Something he couldn't identify. Something dark and wretched and seething.

For some, unfathomable reason, hearing about Blake's current situation was…

It just did something to him. There were flames in his veins and a generator in his heart and thunder in his ears…

And the rage felt split too. As if Blake and John had been complicit in Blake's betrayal.

Wait.

Had they been? Was John the reason she left?

The thought just made him angrier.

Adam wasn't sure what he was experiencing. The urges were overwhelming. Part of him wanted to lock Blake in a room and never let her out. Another wanted to stab her. Another wanted to beg her to come back. And a loud part of him—a part he'd never paid much attention to—wanted to see what the hell John looked like.

And depending on how that turned out, he'd stab him too.

A moment ago, he was happy to let John, Roman, and Cinder destroy each other. Now he wanted nothing more than to go to Vale and murder John that very night.

He resisted the urge to squeeze his sinuses. The motion would have been unsuccessful had he made the attempt. His mask was still firmly in place.

Why the hell was his head pounding?

Why was he so confused?

What the hell was happening to him?

"So…" said Trill. "Do you want me to stay on Blake…or get back to Roman…?"

"Stay on Blake," answered Adam. "You can get back to your primary mission once you are relieved."

"Who'll be relieving me?" asked Trill. There was a hint of smugness in his tone.

"I'll be there…"

Adam trailed off, considering how quickly he could get his affairs in order here. Who would he even leave in charge? There were a lot of delicate plans in motion and any one of them could fail without him. Maybe a week? Possibly more?

And then add in the time it would take to get to Vale from his current location…

"Next Thur—"

An image flashed across his mind. Unbidden. Of a faceless man. A human. John. Tangled in a pile of naked limbs with Blake.

"—tomorrow."

"Next…tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," clarified Adam.

"How will you even get here by—"

"I'll ride a fucking Nevermore."

"You'll do wha—"

Adam ended the call.

He didn't have time to chat.

What the hell was the fastest way to Vale?

I*I*I

"So, you were living on the streets before this?" asked Pip. Her voice was wrapped in worry.

Blake's eyes flicked between John and her fellow faunus.

John was sprawled across the floor. The back of his head rested in laced fingers. His eyes were closed. His legs were crossed. And he was humming.

Pip's hand was resting on hers. Her eyes were wide and caring.

Blake cleared her throat, fighting off her discomfort. As much as John had forcibly inserted himself into Pip's life, dragging her along with him, she still considered herself to be Pip's guest. Plus, despite her youth, the dog faunus reminded Blake of her mother.

So ignoring her was off the table.

Still, Blake so badly wanted to return to her book.

Why could she never read in peace?

Curse John for bringing all this up.

"Not for long," Blake began. "I was looking for a job, so I could make the down payment on an apartment rental—but without a diploma I got rejected a few times."

"It probably didn't help that you're a faunus," chipped in John, oh so helpfully.

Blake didn't disagree.

Although, she kept her faunus traits concealed during her job hunt, which meant her heritage didn't play quite as big a role in her failures as her lack of formal education did.

Minimum wage jobs weren't exactly interested in how much she had studied and read to keep herself growing intellectually. All they saw was that she hadn't graduated from any school anywhere.

She had received two offers from men who couldn't keep their gazes off her legs and chest—one to each—but she refused those jobs on principle alone.

She would never accept an offer from a human who considered her nothing more than a piece of ass. It was bad enough that they'd think her an animal if they ever saw her without her bow.

In hindsight, maybe she was a bit picky—especially considering her lack of resources.

But it all worked out in the end.

"Anyway, Vale is pleasant this time of year."

"That's true," said Pip. "Vale is pleasant this time of year." Her hand began to retract from Blake's.

Blake breathed a sigh of relief.

"Except for those thunderstorms," inserted John.

"That's right!" suddenly Pip's grip on her hand doubled in strength. "What did you do when it rained?"

Blake resisted the urge to glare at John. His eyes were closed so he wouldn't see it. And even if he somehow did, he would likely take amusement from it. "I ducked into a shop until it passed."

"What about at night? When the shops weren't open?"

This time Blake couldn't stop herself from glaring at John. His eyes didn't open. But he still grinned the moment she turned. After wishing she would spontaneously develop laser vision for a few seconds—with little in the way of success—she turned back to Pip.

"Look, I'm fine. It was just a few days. And it was only going to be a few days more. Besides, I'm…" Blake paused.

She knew what she was about to say. _She was going to Beacon._ That's why she knew her homelessness would have such a short lifespan.

Beacon was the plan.

Emphasis on _was_.

Was it still?

Hard to say. A lot had changed over the last twenty-four hours.

She'd learned that the White Fang was working with Roman Torchwick, to move massive amounts of stolen refined dust. She'd sat next to John at a meeting _with_ Roman Torchwick and a girl with multi-colored hair—both of whom were more than a little cautious of John, her new… _friend_?

Perhaps _comrade_ was more appropriate.

She had listened to them discuss the Fang and the current directives of some woman named Cinder.

And that was only a little more than an hour ago.

Sure, there were a lot of gaps in Roman's narrative.

What did Cinder intend with the dust? How had she convinced the White Fang to participate? What was her end goal?

But John was able to fill in each of those blanks.

An attack on Beacon. The chance to attack Vale. Vale in flames.

Blake didn't want to believe anything she was hearing. But she couldn't ignore it. Not when it was so easy for her to envision Adam's response to an offer of widespread chaos and destruction.

He was already in a steep moral decline when she left.

He had made it clear several times over that "casualties" weren't just acceptable—they were preferred. In his own words, "bodies made a statement."

The surprising part of all this was that the bodies to which Adam was referring were no longer strictly human. An attack on Vale would endanger the lives of humans and faunus alike.

And Blake honestly wasn't sure if Adam was that far gone or not.

Could Blake really ignore _this_ in favor of a second-chance at school?

Wasn't this her responsibility? Her job? Wasn't Adam, at least in part, her fault?

Didn't she have a duty to at least help John stop the attack?

Yes. The answer to all those questions was yes. Well, the first one was no. But the other four were all yesses.

The next question, she supposed, was whether Beacon would help of hinder her in accomplishing those goals.

She'd have a place to live, food to eat, and a formal combat education. All beneficial.

But could she still address the White Fang?

Did she even want to?

"Besides what?" prompted Pip.

Blake remembered she'd been talking when her thoughts overtook her. What was she about to say?

Right.

"I'm um…I'm going to Beacon…"

Probably.

Possibly.

Who knew?

"…if I can't handle a few days outside, then I won't make a very good huntress."

Pip didn't look totally convinced. Who would? Being a huntress had nothing to do with being homeless.

But she did release Blake's hand so that was something.

"When you say you're _going to Beacon_ does that mean you took the practical skills assessment? Or that you forged some transcripts?" asked John.

" _Forged transcripts_?" Blake unintentionally hissed. "I would never do that."

"Why?" questioned John. "Too smalltime for an ex-terrorist?"

Blake could feel a vein throbbing in her forehead. Her heart was telling her to scream at him—the White Fang weren't terrorists.

Unfortunately, her heart just hadn't caught up with her brain yet—because she knew they were.

She also knew he was just trying to get a rise out of her. Her reactions were amusing him endlessly. She just needed to stay calm, take deep breaths, and refuse him the satisfaction.

John opened one eye, peeked at her, and smirked bigger.

Was just seeing her breathe deliberately enough to tickle his humor?

After a few more steady inhalations, she spoke. "I'm going to take the practical skill assessment."

"Ah, shame. I was going to invite you to the _I-forged-my-transcripts-to-go-to-a-huntsman-academy_ club. But if you're a dirty PSA taker, then we don't want you."

"Huh?"

John sat up suddenly, both eyes open, staring at her curiously. "You said you're _going_ to take the PSA? As in, you haven't taken it yet?"

Blake shook her head.

"But the school year has almost started, the last PSA must be—"

"I'm scheduled for tomorrow."

John's smirk slowly twisted into what Blake could only describe as a devilish grin. The scar running across his face didn't help much.

"Tomorrow huh? Interesting."

Blake narrowed her eyes. Something about his tone worried her. She wasn't sure what it was though. Pip distracted her before she could ask why he sounded so devious.

"That's amazing."

The dog faunus' words were quiet. Probably so much so that John couldn't hear them. But Blake could.

She still wasn't sure how best to deal with Pip's idolization. It wasn't really her that Pip placed on a pedestal—thankfully—but her parents. But as the only Belladonna in the room to receive her adulation, Blake was subject to constant compliments, praise, and concern.

Well, she was now. After the tension between her, John, and Pip settled a bit.

The first few hours had been…unstable, to say the least.

I*I*I

 _A Day Previous_

The man's intentions were obvious.

They were clear.

Crystal.

Rape.

She didn't care that he introduced both himself and his potential victim. She didn't care that he wasn't behaving aggressively.

His non-aggression was a ploy.

And "John" was clearly a pseudonym.

She had thrown herself to the Beowulfs here. Blake knew that.

She should have given up on helping Pip the moment she overheard John telling those drunkards he was a huntsman.

She should have given up on helping Pip the moment she got a good look at John.

He was clearly a warrior. Trained and battle-hardened, likely outclassing her in the same way a huntress-in-training outclassed a civilian.

And, help?

Help wasn't an option either.

She was alone.

And he was a human.

He could do whatever he wanted to some poor faunus woman. Who would stop him? The police? They wouldn't go out of their way to stop a normal civilian from abusing a faunus. Challenging a huntsman? They'd turn a blind eye so fast their necks might snap.

Her eyes darted around the room, mind racing through every potential method to extract herself and Pip from the situation, first and foremost alive—but unharmed as a close second. It occurred to her that perhaps they couldn't both escape. But if she could distract him long enough, Pip might make it to the front door.

She discarded the idea a second later. If the power difference between her and John was as big as she assumed from the casual way he'd shoved her into the room, then she doubted she could do much to displace him from where he currently stood: in front of the door.

So instead she yelled. It wasn't much of a plan. But it was all she had at the moment.

She tried to guilt him, asking him what kind of huntsman victimized defenseless faunus?

John showed little response to her tirade.

Blake pushed Pip behind her when John stepped towards them. He didn't look particularly angry or vicious. In fact, he looked amused, almost friendly—if not for the landing strip scar stretched across his face.

As Blake shielded Pip with her body, she could not stop her mind from recalling a scene from a book she had read a few months back. The romance in that book had been a bit…rougher. Less vanilla. Less consensual.

Plus, it involved two women. Sisters. The older doing everything in her power to protect the younger.

In the end the warrior still had them both.

But the _way_ he had them.

By the last few chapters of the book, everything was consensual. Very consensual. Habitual, really.

Up to that point things had been…semi-consensual?

There weren't many options for the women. So perhaps consent wasn't the right word. But the older sister gave in. She begged for gentleness for her sister. And the warrior granted it to them both.

Blake could feel her face beginning to bake as she recalled just what he granted them.

Ugh.

It had been exciting to read. But it was messed up in real life. She knew that.

But it was also kind of exciting in real life too.

Blake's overheating brain caused a lull in her torrent of accusations, which allowed John to speak.

Thank Oum he made his lack of raping intent clear _before_ Blake made the mistake of reciting some humiliatingly submissive lines from her second favorite adult novel.

It didn't take long for her to believe him. She didn't trust him. But he honestly didn't sound like the raping sort.

Whatever that meant.

But while believing John's claims of personal innocence came quickly, believing his claims concerning the White Fang took a fair bit longer.

The White Fang, working with humans?

Adam, speaking with humans cordially?

It was too farfetched.

But Pip agreed with him.

That was something. It was possible John was just intimidating her, forcing her to spread his lies…

But the details. There were so many of them. The stories Pip told were consistent.

It didn't feel like she was lying between her teeth. And John didn't appear to be coaching her.

At one point, Pip shared some of the good things the White Fang were doing for faunus living in lower income areas. John didn't silence her or deny it.

Although the sad conclusion of that part of the conversation was that the Fang's outreach was little more than a recruitment effort. A bid to attract the young, poor, and desperate.

Pip's stories lined up so well with what Blake had been reading in the news and confirmed so many of her fears concerning her parent's legacy, that the feline faunus' doubts came crashing down.

She still needed to see it for herself, the face of the new White Fang. Just to confirm how far the once noble organization had fallen.

She wanted to investigate that very moment.

But she couldn't.

She couldn't leave Pip with John. Even if she was confident that he wasn't a faunus fetishizing rapist, she couldn't leave. Pip was clearly scared. What civilian wouldn't be? There was literally nothing she could do against a huntsman. And her faunus heritage meant she wouldn't even be able to get help.

Sure, Blake wasn't a great defense against an experienced huntsman.

But at least the poor woman wasn't alone.

Huh.

Would John would stop her if she and Pip simply…left? This _was_ Pip's place but if John just wanted a place to sleep then maybe she and Pip could go elsewhere. Anywhere was fine really—if it was far away from him.

When Blake voiced her question, John shrugged.

"You're free to go wherever you want, I guess. You're only here because you jumped me in the hall. Pip's free to go too—or rather, free to kick me out. But I don't think she'll want to leave my protection. Afterall, a lot of people saw her leaving the warehouse with me—"

"I was carried out, against my will!", interjected Pip.

John continued, unphased, now addressing her directly. "They're going to expect you to be dead. If you come back unharmed, they'll assume you're my spy. In fact, even if they see you walking around on the street, Roman and Neo might take you somewhere to extract information and then…" John shrugged. "You'll never be seen or heard of again."

Pip's wide eyes studied her trembling hands.

Blake stared at the woman for a few seconds.

Was John right?

She had been on the verge of pointing out that he might be right about the White Fang, but the anonymity afforded by Pip's mask should _at least_ allow her to safely walk the streets but…

One look at Pip's face killed the retort on her tongue.

Sure, someone with training and aura might be able to weigh the risks and take decisive action—but Pip was just a normal woman. A terrified normal woman. And John, an imposing fully-trained huntsman was offering to protect her.

From a situation he had created—yes. But protection, nonetheless.

She'd be a fool to turn that down.

She spared another glance at the faunus.

And it didn't look like she would.

So where did that leave Blake? Was she free to investigate the White Fang now? She could always check back in on Pip and John later…

But what if they weren't here upon Blake's return?

What if John took her somewhere?

What if John wasn't a rapist…but he was still a pervert?

What if he was just waiting for Blake to get out of the way so he could seduce Pip?

Well, actually…there was nothing wrong with him seducing her was there?

No. Of course there was something wrong with it. There was a clear power imbalance here. It wasn't fair.

Although the unfairness of it all would absolutely make it hotter.

Much hotter.

 _"I-I'm scared," she spoke, voice barely above a whisper. A small part of her wanted to run. A small part of her wanted to fight. But most of her, the sum-total of her being, was transfixed._

 _"You should be," he undid the last button, shrugging off his shirt, revealing his tense flawless stomach and his rigid unyielding chest. The scars did nothing to detract from his perfection._

 _She shivered._

 _"But not for the reasons you think."_

 _He placed his hands gently on her hips, lifting her without a hint of effort, without a modicum of strain._

 _His sapphire eyes were almost too much. It felt as if he was inside of her. Wondering through her mind and heart. Knowing her, in every sense of the word._

 _She tried to look away from the smoldering ice. But she couldn't. She was caught. Trapped._

 _"Your whole world is about to change."_

 _She swallowed._

 _"I-I've never…this is my first…"_

 _"Shh…" He laid her down on the bed. His rough hands slid up her shirt, only a little—for now. His calloused thumb stroked her ribs as he gently rubbed._

 _One. Two. Three. Four._

 _It was as if his hand was counting each bone as his it traveled. Then it would stop, rest for a moment, and then reverse its journey, counting once again._

 _Each swipe set her insides on fire._

 _But she could hardly pay attention to his hand. Not when his lips were on her ears. Her faunus trait. The source of every insult or taunt she had ever endured. They had been slapped, mocked, and nearly cut off._

 _And now they were being bitten._

 _Softly._

 _Gently._

 _With a sensuality that bordered on reverence._

 _He dragged his lips down the interior of her ear, leaving a trail of fire on the sensitive flesh. He stopped as he approached the core. He whispered, "the only thing you should be scared of…right here…right now, is never wanting to leave this room again. Because I…"_

 _He kissed the tip of her ear._

 _"am going…"_

 _He kissed the base._

 _"to take…"_

 _He kissed her forehead._

 _"such good…"_

 _He kissed her nose._

 _"care of you."_

 _He pulled back an inch, eyes dipping down to her lips before returning to hers. "Do you want that?"_

 _She didn't trust herself to speak. She wanted to. But her body wasn't listening to her. Everything was hot and tingling and shivering. She needed to say…to say…?_

 _She opened her mouth._

 _He glanced down at her open mouth, he glanced back up with a raised questioning brow._

 _She shut her mouth and nodded._

 _She nodded and nodded._

 _He smiled. His free hand stroked her cheek. "Good gi—"_

"Blake?"

Blake blinked twice.

Pip and John were looking at her

"Did you hear _anything_ I said?"

"S-sorry, I was thinking about something."

Oh hell, was she blushing? Please, whatever powers resided above, let the heat on her cheeks be an artifact of her imagination…

Or at least make it so that neither John nor Pip could see it?

"Look," John interrupted her less-than-helpful meandering thoughts. "I was saying. If you really want to see what's happening with your old pals in the White Fang, you can come with me to meet Roman."

 _That_ got her attention. Not just the offer. But the fact that he knew she was Ex White Fang. And before that, did he say her name?

"How do you know my name!?"

John stared at her for a moment. "I don't…?"

It was phrased like a statement, but it meandered like a question.

"Yes, you do. Just a moment ago. You called me Blake."

John's face was a blank slate for a few seconds, then his expression eased.

"Semblance."

"Semblance?" she repeated. "What kind of semblance?"

"I just know things. Here, watch." His eyes suddenly rolled upwards. He tensed. After a few seconds he relaxed, and his pupils returned. "You're an ex-Lieutenant to…a ginger goat or moose or maybe unicorn faunus? A horny faunus—that's the point. Ha, the _point_."

Blake knew she should have been freaking out over this powerful knowledge-based semblance—but she couldn't stop herself from imagining Adam's response to being called "a horny faunus."

"You left the Fang because of a mission gone bad. A train heist or something. You left the horny faunus to go at it alone. Which he did. Unhappily. He really wanted to blow up those other train cars. After that you—"

"Okay, I get it! You've got some sort of creepy semblance."

"You're the one who wanted me to demonstrate it. All I used it for at first was to get your name. Which, by the way, Blake Belladonna, alliterative—very nice. I—"

John was interrupted by an excited squeal.

"You're Blake Belladonna!?"

Blake turned towards her fellow faunus. "Yes…?"

"Your parents are the reason I joined the White Fang!"

Pip went from mousey and docile to a blur of activity in a moment. She rushed to her feet and disappeared around a corner into, what Blake assumed to be, her kitchen. "Can I get you something to drink—either of you? I have Tea."

"Ooh! Tea sounds lovely Pip," said John.

He followed Pip into the kitchen, leaving Blake in the hall, where the last two hours of yelling—almost exclusively her—had taken place.

"But can I get some water first? I am parched."

Blake watched John vanish further into Pip's house.

He was no longer between her and the front door. She could leave right now if she wanted. And he really didn't seem to mean Pip any harm—although he wasn't giving her much choice about his presence.

Besides, she should have been training for the Beacon entry exam.

Although, if she left now, she knew she wasn't going to train. She was going to figure out what the hell Adam was up to.

She took a step towards the door.

"I'll probably meet with Roman tomorrow," called out John, from somewhere in the apartment. "So, if you want to know what the White Fang and Torchwick are up to, I suggest you stay."

Blake stopped.

"Unless you think you'll learn more poking around on rooftops and sneaking into meetings with White Fang grunts. In which case, more power to you."

Blake bit her lip. A meeting sounded both easier and more informative.

She trudged towards John's voice. The kitchen was a paltry area. The fridge was small. The oven was ancient. And there was a gaping hole beneath one portion of the counter. No doubt it was a location where an appliance was _supposed_ to sit.

Pip was fiddling with a kettle.

John stood off to the side, nursing a glass of water.

"Fine, is there a way I can contact you before the meeting?"

"Contact me?" questioned John. He squinted at her. "Just say my name."

Blake returned his narrowed eye gaze. "What does that mean?"

"Just say, _hey John, did you forget about the meeting?_ and I'll be like _ooh! Nice catch kitty-cat!_ Then we'll go."

"I meant, can I have a way of contacting you, _from a distance_ , so we can meet up?"

"Why would we need to meet up? We'll be here."

Blake felt a hint of a twitch forming in her brow.

"Mi casa; su casa."

The twitching was getting worse.

"This isn't your house."

"But he's not wrong," said Pip. "What's mine is yours. You can have the bed."

The bed?

Her bed?

"That's not—" began Blake.

Pip ran her over. "In return you can tell me about your parents. What are they like? What were they like when you were younger? Whose idea was the White Fang? Do they still keep an eye on the organization?" Pip abandoned the kettle in favor of reaching for Blake's hands. Blake let her—if only because she was confused and had no idea what was happening. "What's their stance on Menagerie White Fang relations? Is Ghira as tall as he looks in the pictures? Why did they decide to resign from the White Fang? Do you think you have any brothers or sisters coming in the future?"

Blake glanced from the fervent eyes fixed on her, to the man who was covering his mouth to muffle his laughter.

There was no way she was staying here.

No.

Way.

"Alrighty," said John. "I haven't slept in about two days. And I need a shower."

Blake watched the next few scenes, with a mixture of confusion and horror, from outside of her body. It was as if she had turned into a ghost and no longer had the power to change what was happening around her.

John went off to clean up as if this was his own home. And Pip ushered her to a small coffee-table in her living area. She sat Blake on a cushion on one side of the table. And then went to retrieve the tea. After that, as Blake sipped the decent brew, Pip launched a torrent of nonstop questions about her family that Blake could only attempt to stymy.

All this, and Pip was already acting as if it was perfectly normal to have one's life hijacked.

How could a _civilian_ possibly roll with the punches this well?

And then John exited the shower, shirtless, wearing only a towel. Revealing his…densely muscled body.

He was easy on the eyes, even with the facial scar.

He was _really_ easy on Pip's eyes.

The dog faunus couldn't look away. She tried, but her eyes kept wondering back to him.

Right, civilians weren't accustomed to the bodies of aura-enhanced fighters.

To Pip, this was probably like seeing one of those ancient mythical deities who occasionally took human forms.

John stopped in the kitchen, drank two glasses of water, then collapsed on Pip's sofa. "Don't let me sleep too long Blake. I texted Roman to meet us tomorrow night, around eight."

Blake didn't reply.

There was no way she was staying here until that meeting.

No.

Way.

And she didn't.

She left for about half-an-hour.

To find John some clothes.

Since he didn't wake up until they had twenty-minutes left to make their meeting.

Asshole.

I*I*I

 _Present Day_

On the street.

At seventeen?

Pip knew that was the fate of a lot of faunus endured when they were stuck in the slums of the four kingdoms. Regardless, she could hardly imagine it.

Blake had shooed away her concern and disappeared into the world of her po—mature-novels.

But Pip couldn't stop herself from thinking about it.

About her.

She still couldn't believe that Blake Belladonna—daughter of Ghira and Kali Belladonna—was staying in her home. That she'd stayed there a whole day already.

The feeling was…indescribable.

She tried to rein herself in. She tried to contain her passion.

After all, she didn't want to scare the girl.

But she had so many questions. And they all just slipped out, one after another.

After another. And another. And another.

She was doing better now. She hadn't gotten all her questions out of her system. But at least she couldn't feel the curiosity bubbling under her skin anymore.

She had quickly realized that Blake was a quiet girl. A girl who'd much rather be left alone to read her…ahem…literature, than engage in constant conversation.

Pip did her best to respect that—after she got answers to the questions that she _had_ to ask, of course.

Giving Blake some alone time, without feeling the urge to harass her with questions, was surprisingly easy thanks to John.

John didn't mind talking at all. In fact, he seemed somewhat thirsty for conversation. She supposed it made sense if his claim of having spent the last year alone in the Grimmlands was true. One likely wouldn't run into many conversation partners out there.

John was scary at first. And by _scary_ she meant terrifying. Being around him was like standing in front of an apex predator—your fate determined by whether the carnivore was feeling hungry.

Or grumpy.

Or territorial.

Or any of the hundred other moods for which a monster might kill you.

Her heart just about stopped when he picked her out of all those White Fang members.

The moment he lifted her off the ground her brain just about broke.

Why her?

What had she done?

How had she set herself apart?

Maybe he just liked the way she looked. That was her first assumption

She wasn't usually one to flatter herself, to think she was the prettiest one in a group—in fact there were a few very attractive faunus back at the warehouse, definitely better lookers than her...

But she was one of the few uninjured.

Maybe she _was_ the prettiest—after John rearranged the competitions' facial features.

Her heart nearly stopped again when he announced they were going to her place. She had no idea what he wanted with her. What he wanted from her.

But she could imagine. And her imaginings weren't pretty. They all ended with her dead. Some, in her own home, in her own bed. Others in a gutter somewhere.

But dead, nonetheless.

Her relief was immense when Blake showed up. Not because she expected the girl to save her. But because she got to watch John's interaction with her. Whereas she was too scared to act in any manner other than timid, Blake yelled, berated, and even attacked him.

And John did nothing. Aside from laughing, teasing, and denying her accusations.

John quickly proved himself less monster and more man.

Pip couldn't be happier about that fact.

John was polite. He was funny. And when she and Blake discussed the plight of faunus, he seemed genuinely displeased with the state of the kingdoms.

He was—dare she say it—an extremely nice guy. Albeit, he was also a vicious huntsman inserting himself into Vale's underbelly criminal circuits for who knew what reason.

But he was also a nice guy.

While Blake was off reading her po—stories—she and John traded memories from their childhood. He had grown up in a small town with seven sisters.

Seven.

She almost made a joke about his parents being bunny faunus—but that was a joke that was considered offensive when it was just between faunus, probably not the kind of thing she should be encouraging a _human_ to laugh at.

She told him a little about herself as well. How her parents had died from a localized epidemic that had broken out in a lower-income faunus community that had since been condemned and bulldozed.

John apologized upon hearing that. He said he knew what it was like to lose people.

Pip believed him.

The haunted look in his eyes left little room for doubt.

Of course, reminiscing about her parents wasn't the reason her eyes were so wet right now. No. That was the onions she was cutting.

"I can't even see," she whined, wiping at her eyes with the hand that wasn't holding a knife.

"Is it really that bad?" asked John, a smothered laugh evident in his voice.

"I told you my nose is more sensitive than a human's!"

"But your eyes are watering. Not your nose."

"My eyes are only watering because I'm smelling the onion!"

"I don't think that's how onions work. But here, we can switch."

Squeezing by each other in the tight kitchen space was difficult—but they managed. Pip handed him the knife and then reached for the sink, rinsing her hands and rubbing her eyes, blinking several times.

"Better?" asked John.

"Barely," said Pip, turning towards the stove.

"Careful, the pan's hot and I just added the oil."

She nodded as she gave her eye one last rub. She sniffed the salmon John had seasoned. Salt, pepper, and rosemary.

Then she watched John's hand blur as he chopped the onion. He was finished in seconds.

Pip blinked. He was a huntsman, sure. But was he completely unfazed by the notion of chopping off one of his fingers? She was about to say something but stopped when someone knocked on her front door.

Well, _knocked_ wasn't quite accurate. _Incessantly banged_ was closer.

John visibly tensed when he heard the noise. His head whipping towards the source of the sound.

Before she really thought about what she was doing, Pip reached out and rested her hand on John's arm, willing him to relax.

She knew the knock. Malcolm always knocked like this.

Malcolm was the worst.

But he wasn't a threat.

At least not the kind John was likely worried about.

John glanced at Pip's hand. His eyes traveled up to her face.

Pip wondered if she might have made a mistake, touching him.

But then he relaxed.

His body loosened, and his eyes melted.

There was something oddly exhilarating about watching him settle at her touch. Like easing a threatened animal. Or calming a stormy sea.

"Someone you know?" said John.

Pip refocused on the matter at _hand_ —so to speak. "Yes." Under her breath she added, "unfortunately." Louder, she said, "I'll be back."

Pip left the kitchen. She caught site of Blake staring in the direction of the door from across the hall in her living area. She looked tense too. Not as tense as John. But still, tense. Pip made calming motions with her hands and went for the door.

The banging got louder. "Open the door you filthy mutt! I know you're home!"

Pip winced. Malcolm did not sound happy.

She turned the deadbolt and reached for the handle.

She wasn't ready for the door to fly open, slamming into her forehead, sending her stumbling backwards.

"Where's my money bitch?"

Pip took a moment to collect herself after the unexpected head trauma. Malcolm was not a huge man. But he was bigger than her—most men were. And a door to the face wasn't pleasant, regardless of the person on the other side. "Malcolm, I get paid on the fourteenth—so I pay you on the fourteenth. That's how its been for a year now and I—"

"New rules," interrupted Malcolm. "You pay now, or you get the hell out of this apartment."

A mixture of anger and shock coursed through her. "You can't do that!"

"Can't? _Can't_?" repeated Malcolm. His face darkened, blood flushing his cheeks. He worked his jaw around several times before he burst. Rather than exploding outward, his wrath condensed. His voice lowered as he jabbed a finger towards her face. "Not only will I have you thrown out of here so fast your fleas' heads will spin, if you don't pay for every speck of damage you've caused on top of your security deposit…"

Pip took a step backward as the man got closer.

"…I'll make sure they lock you up with guys desperate enough that they don't mind catching whatever you mongrels have."

He took another step forward. A generous step. A large step.

Pip tried to take two steps back. But she ran into a wall.

A wall she didn't recall having in the middle of the hall.

A wall a lot sturdier than the flimsy building materials that made up her apartment.

A wall with an arm that wrapped around her shoulders and tucked her into its wonderfully protective side, like she was meant to be there.

Malcolm's fire died instantly.

"You my girlfriend's landlord?"

Malcolm stared at the scarred man towering five inches over him.

"I…" he trailed off.

"Aye?" repeated John. "Cool. There're a couple things I've noticed since I've been home. You know, been on an extended hunt for a while."

Malcolm's eyes zeroed in on the broken sword at John's side. He looked up when he heard paper tearing.

Pip did also, though she was a little dazed. For some reason she was more focused on the way John felt beside her, than the words he was speaking or what was happening on the other side of his body.

Seeing what was in John's available hand cleared her head a little.

Wallpaper.

He'd torn some of the ugly floral print right off her wall.

"See that?" began John. He beckoned for Malcolm to come closer. To get a good look at the wall. "That's mold. That shit will mess up your lungs. I'm a huntsman. I need my lungs. My girlfriend," he motioned to Pip. "likes having lungs too. Matter of fact, I bet you like having lungs too, don't you Malcolm?"

John rested an open hand on Malcolm's chest just above his lung. From most, the motion would have seemed no more than an awkward touch. From John it seemed like a threat to rip out an organ like it too was made of floral wallpaper.

Malcolm nodded mutely. His face was no longer red or twisted into a nasty scowl. He was pale. Pale as a Schnee.

"Couple other concerns, Malcolm. Follow us." John navigated them towards the kitchen.

Pip had just as little choice in the matter as Malcolm, given how John had attached them at the hip. But even if she could have physically resisted, slipped out of his hold…

Why on Remnant would she ever want to?

"What is this shit Malcolm?" John motioned towards the gap beneath the counter, where once an appliance sat.

Malcolm stared at the hole then glanced at John and then back again. John waited patiently for an answer.

Malcolm looked to her for help.

To _her_.

Ha.

Pip just turned into John a bit more, wondering if he'd mind if she rested her head on him.

"Ahem," Malcom cleared his throat. "T-this unit doesn't include a d-dish-washer. S-she…" he pointed at Pip, albeit with far less aggression than earlier. "…knew that up front."

He wasn't lying about that.

Good housing was a rare thing for someone who was both poor and a faunus. But even so, of Pip's two options some year-and-a-half-ago, she had selected the more rundown apartment with the two rooms instead of one.

 _Mistake_ didn't even begin to describe her error in judgement. All this apartment had ever given her was more space for her misery.

All that said, she had known this apartment was absent a dishwasher. She had _viewed_ the property before signing the contract.

John didn't seem to particularly care about all those details.

"Are you telling me to wash my own damn dishes by hand?" asked John, growling.

"No!" exclaimed Malcolm.

"Then fix it."

"I…um…I can try—yes—okay."

"And what the hell is up with the hot water in this place?"

"W-well—"

"Pip and I like to take long hot baths. Hard to do when you've only got cold water."

"W-water temperature—got it. B-but—"

"And fix the pressure while you're at it."

"B-but—"

"But what?"

"This apartment… doesn't have a bathtub."

Pip glanced up at John, wondering how he would respond.

His eyes narrowed.

Two days ago, the look he was giving Malcolm would have had her saying her final prayers—regardless of whether it was levelled at her.

Now, it was the sexiest thing she had ever seen.

"I said, me and my girlfriend like taking hot baths. How about you use some common sense and figure out what I want."

"A-a tub?"

"You are a scholar."

"Is th-there anything else M-mister…?"

"John. And no, I don't think so. Unless…" he glanced down at Pip. The moment their eyes met his irises went from frigid oceans to amused skies. "Can you think of anything darling?"

Darling.

It wasn't the first time she'd been called that. But there was something about the warmth and affection with which he said it…

"U-uh. N-no. Nothing comes to mind."

John smiled at her.

Was he really faking right now?

Was this really an act?

Because if that wasn't the most goddam loving smile she had ever seen…

He looked back up at Malcolm. "I like jets. And make it big. Big enough for two."

Malcolm froze, wide eyed. He was probably wondering how he was going to fit a large tub in her small bathroom.

"You're dismissed."

Malcolm overcame his surprise and sprinted to the door.

Even once he was gone, John didn't let go of her.

Good thing too. Her legs felt a little…boneless.

He glanced down at her, his expression full of concern. "Are you okay?"

Pip wasn't sure how to answer that. On the one hand, she wasn't. She definitely wasn't.

On the other hand, that wasn't Malcolm's doing. Like at all.

Her distress stemmed from the burning hand on her arm. The yielding steel beam across her shoulders. And the compassion oozing off the man beside her.

Big enough for two.

He asked for a bath big enough for two.

"Hey, Pip, are you okay?"

"She's fine," Blake piped up from beside her.

When had she gotten there?

"Malcolm probably just scared her. I'll help her get to her bed. Lying down will help."

John nodded. "Alright, I'll finish up the food then."

"Is that Salmon?" Blake's voice perked.

"Yeah, it's a good-luck-on-your-assessment meal. You struck me as a seafood kind of girl."

Blake hummed her pleasure at his assessment.

Pip felt herself frown and resist slightly the moment Blake separated her from John. It was as if her entire body was complaining at the space between them.

Blake snickered at her distress.

Blake rubbed gentle circles on Pip's back as they walked toward the bedroom.

The dog faunus couldn't resist a quick glance over her shoulder as they left. John had turned back to the stove. From a distance, an admittedly short one, he looked massive in the small kitchen.

Pip's bedroom was just to the left of the front door. It was small. Much smaller than her living area. The bed took up about half the room. Her beaten-up dresser took up about a quarter.

Blake hastily sat her down on her bed and closed the door behind them. Without the light from the hall, the room was pretty dark.

Well, by human standards it was pretty dark.

Neither faunus had difficulty seeing.

Pip didn't pay much attention to Blake until the girl started fanning her with her pornographic novel.

"Are you okay?"

It was the same question she'd failed to answer earlier.

But now that John was absent, the words came a bit easier.

"I'm fine."

"You sure? Your face is all red. And…" She placed a hand on her forehead. "You're warm too. Maybe you have a fever?"

Pip stared at Blake's straight face for a moment, briefly considering that maybe she was serious. But then she remembered that she'd been reading hardcore erotica for half the time they'd known one another.

There was no way the pervy cat didn't know why she was flushed.

Pip sighed. "Just say it."

"Say what?" replied Blake, covering an emerging grin with her book. "I was just going to offer to make myself scarce in case you wanted to ravish him."

She'd known it was coming but that didn't stop her face from burning. She just wished she had a better comeback than staring at her hands. When she didn't reply, Blake sat down next to her. "I _am_ teasing you. But I'm also serious if you want…?"

"No," said Pip hastily. The idea of kicking Blake _Belladonna_ out of her house and onto the streets so she could attempt to seduce a _human_ who likely wasn't even interested in her was so absurd… so laughable…

But was he really disinterested in her?

That moment, when he'd pretended to be hers.

When he'd pretended she was his.

When he gripped her to his side, possessively. Passionately.

That felt real.

That felt really real.

"That's crazy. He's a human. That's…crazy."

"Not really," Blake shrugged. "He's a huntsman. Human-faunus relationships aren't _that_ rare among huntsmen and huntresses."

"Really?" asked Pip. She had never heard that.

Blake nodded. "I guess people who fight Grimm regularly are less likely to care about race or what other people think."

Pip considered that. Then she shook her head. "Still crazy."

Blake's face primarily remained blank, but the corner or her lips snuck upwards and she did not bother to hide it. "Imagine how the kids would look."

"Don't want to."

"Mmm, you think their ears would be the color of his hair?"

Dammit. Now she _was_ imagining it.

Of course their ears would be the color of his hair.

Two boys and three girls. Each one of them an adorable masterpiece.

The girls all had her ears. One of the boys had a tail.

The final boy was born without a faunus trait—a great source of consternation for him—so she comforted him constantly. He was so afraid she didn't love him as much as the other children. The ones who were more like her.

Her response?

There was no way she didn't love the child who most reminded her of her beloved husband.

And just as the boy began to smile and wipe his eyes John grabbed him, tossing him up in the air, as the rest of the brood latched onto his legs.

John was smiling just like he had in the kitchen.

And she was by his side…

With…a full pregnant belly…

A sixth child was on the way!?

Well…he did say he had seven sisters. His family had litters. And she was a matriarch of that family now so—

"Pip?"

Pip's eyes refocused on Blake.

Oh Oum.

She'd been staring at the cat faunus for the last few seconds.

Or rather, she'd been staring _through_ the cat faunus for the last few seconds.

And if the slightly enlarged smirk on the girl's face was any indication, she knew exactly what Pip had been envisioning.

"Wow, well, I'm cheering for you." Blake stood, taking the single step between her and the exit. She turned before opening the door. She held up her book. "I've read a lot of these. But I've never seen one of their plots happen in real life. Good luck."

Pip watched Blake close the door behind her.

Was she implying that her life had turned into one of those tasteless erotic adult-novels? All those books had was unusual circumstances, a few barriers to the relationship, and tons of raunchy explicit sex.

Right.

All she was missing was the raunchy explicit sex.

So that was what Blake was cheering for.

Pip laid back on her bed.

Who would have guessed the daughter of the Belladonnas' would be such a little—

There was a knock on her door.

Pip sat up immediately, straightening her shirt and attempting to affect a demure pose.

"Come in."

The door opened. It was just Blake.

"Hey, John said if you aren't feeling well, he's going to bring your food in here."

"Oh?" replied Pip, attempting to sound disinterested.

"I just wanted to give you a heads up. To make sure you're decent. Or not, I guess, if you don't want to be."

Blake closed the door and disappeared before Pip could verbally reply.

But not before she stifled a laugh at Pip's flushed gawking.

"Don't think I won't get you back for this Belladonna."

She spoke in a normal tone, a voice Blake could likely hear from anywhere in the apartment, but John was unlikely to pick up from the kitchen.

Her own ears twitched when she detected a light, "ha!" from the girl in question.

Pip collapsed back onto her bed.

I*I*I

"I'm…ha…I'm here."

Trill studied the panting bull-faunus, waiting for him to catch his breath. He looked…wet. Very wet.

And…

Trill glanced upward.

The morning sun painted a beautiful collage of reds, oranges, and yellows across the sky. A few lazy clouds drifted through the sky, but all of them were all white and friendly.

Yep.

It wasn't raining.

Trill turned back to his…moist companion.

In addition to looking positively drenched, Adam's mask was a little lopsided. And his hair looked as if he'd been mugged by a lunatic with an industrial blow-dryer.

Trill glanced down at his watch. Seven-and-a-half-hours had passed since he contacted Adam.

"How the hell did you get here so f—"

Adam interrupted him brusquely. "This is it?" He motioned to the building across from them.

The apartment complex was a story shorter than the than the roof they were standing on.

"Yeah."

Adam dropped a hand to his blade's hilt. "Blake's in there."

Trill watched the bottom of his leader's face. Sure, his mask obscured his eyes—which meant most of his expression was hidden—but his mouth was still exposed, and his thin pressed lips had to mean something.

More telling, was the way he stood in silence, staring at the building without so much as twitching. As if the structure itself had a sword at its waist and the two were waiting to see which would draw first. Trill decided to break the quiet before it got uncomfortable.

Well…

 _More_ uncomfortable.

"Yeah…no. She left a while ago."

Adam didn't move or respond for a few seconds.

Trill prepared himself to explain where she'd gone. Normally he liked to play around a bit more but it was morning—which meant all he really wanted was a nice dark place to sleep.

Surprisingly, Adam's next question wasn't about her location.

"Did she leave with John?"

"No he left with another woman an hour or so before Blake did."

"Another woman?" said Adam.

"Yeah, a faunus. I'm thinking she's the one he took from the warehouse."

"So, Blake, John, and this…other woman were in the apartment all night. Why?"

The question sounded rhetorical.

Trill decided to answer anyway. "Orgy?"

"That..." Adam's voice sounded weird as he replied, like it had been stretched thin. "That doesn't sound much like Blake—does it?"

No, it didn't. But Adam's tone certainly didn't indicate much confidence in that belief. "Well, she reads smut—like, all the time."

When Adam didn't reply, instead refocusing his attention on the building that so majorly offended him, Trill took a step back. He was not certain of what was between Adam and Blake, but he was beginning to suspect it might be love bordering on obsession. In which case, it'd probably be in his best interest to stop playing around and keep his distance in case the guy snapped.

Hopefully he wasn't already off the edge.

"Where is she?"

He was talking. That was a good sign.

Trill pointed. "Beacon."

Adam's eyes followed Trill's pointed finger, as if he could see the school from here. "Beacon…huh."

"What's the plan boss?"

Adam hummed. "How quickly could we get inside the school?"

Trill swallowed. Adam's voice sounded even-keeled and dry. He didn't _sound_ crazy.

But the idea…

A wanted criminal willingly inserting himself into a school full of full-fledge huntsman and huntresses, without an iota of preparation, for a girl.

That idea.

That idea redefined crazy.

"I think," Trill began tactfully. "The fastest way to see Blake again—not to mention the way that's least likely to end with you in prison—is to arrange a meeting with John. He's in contact with Roman. So, we go through him."

Adam continued to stare in the distance, no doubt contemplating the efficacy of staging a one-man assault on Beacon.

"Fine. We'll do that. First, take me wherever you're staying." He plucked his sticky shirt. "I smell like shit."

Trill grinned.

It wasn't much, but at least he wasn't completely gone.

Maybe a shower and some sleep would have him back in normal form in a couple of hours.

I*I*I

Blake deboarded the small airship slowly, almost cautiously. Her right-hand reached for the top of her head instinctively, just to make sure her bow was in place. Her left-hand twitched towards Gambol Shroud.

She wasn't expecting to be attacked on Beacon grounds or anything—but it never hurt to be prepared. Her day had been going strange enough already—being assaulted unprepared wouldn't make things all that weirder.

First, she had woken up to John and Pip's absence.

She had fallen asleep earlier than them both, her stomach full of fish. She still hadn't decided what she was going to do at that point.

Whether she was going to follow through with her plan to attend Beacon. Or focus on her responsibility, her duty, to stop the White Fang.

The quandary haunted her dreams.

She opened her eyes that morning, resolved to…

Shudder.

Ask John for his advice.

It wasn't that she didn't like John. There was a lot to like about him.

He was clearly the type who dedicated his life to protecting innocent people—everything he was initiating to stop this Cinder woman was proof of that. And he didn't care about the differences between humans and faunus—in fact, he stood up against racism, quite vehemently too, if his display towards Pip's landlord was to be used as a benchmark. He also seemed friendly—in a genuine people-loving sort of way.

But despite all that…

There was something unsettling about the man. He made fun of her, which in and of itself was fine, but he did so in a very precise way, as if he knew her as well as she knew herself. And the face he portrayed when they were meeting with Roman? Sure, he smiled. And chuckled. And gabbed. But there was also the promise of swift and brutal violence in his eyes. And in his stance was the confidence to deliver said violence with ease.

Something about the man made her feel safe but also grated on her nerves—like she had to be on her game around him. Like she had to make sure she never showed even a hint of weakness.

Still, he was a full-blown huntsman. There were few people more qualified to give advice on this particular issue.

Even if asking him ate her up inside.

She was simultaneously surprised, disappointed, suspicious, and pleased when she woke to a note on the coffee table.

The handwriting was barely legible.

It started:

 _Pip and I are going out._

Blake was hit with immediate suspicion.

Going out? Going out where? A hotel? Just what happened after she went to sleep? Did Pip make a move? Did John? Were they going on a date or getting straight to business? Why, wouldn't she have heard anything and woken—unless they were sneaking?

She wanted to see how things went between the two dammit!

She was almost too distracted to read the rest of the note. But when she did—she found her answer.

To the Beacon thing.

Not the real world erotica she was trying to breathe into existence.

 _Blake, I know you're the I WANNA SAVE THE WORLD type. I am too. You're weak right now. And a kid. Go to school. Get stronger. Become a huntress. A real one._

 _I guess, what I'm trying to say is…_

 _Don't be late._

 _Glynda hates that._

 _Don't want that career to end before it starts._

Underneath John's chicken-scratch was a far easier to read message, Pip, no doubt.

A simple:

 _Good luck!_

Followed by a smiley face.

Well, not quite a smiley face. The face had horns, a lone fang, and a protruding tongue. It looked a little like Adam.

Blake had smiled at the observation and the sentiment the drawing conveyed: Pip wasn't quite over all the teasing from the night before.

Blake's smile had faded as she reread the useful part of John's message several times. She was weak. She practically felt like a civilian without aura when she compared herself to John—and she had never even seen the man fight.

She was too weak. Too weak to make the world a better place for faunus. Too weak to remake the White Fang. Too weak to stand up to Adam in person.

If Beacon could get rid of that weakness…

If Beacon could give her strength…

Then she needed to go to Beacon.

So here she was.

"Hello, Ms. Belladonna?" an orange haired woman addressed her. She stood a few feet away from the boarding ramp, a clipboard in her hands.

"That's me. Are you Ms. Goodwitch?"

"No," replied the woman. "Glynda was supposed to meet you here, but there was an emergency. I'm one of the professors here at Beacon. Professor Peach."

She motioned for Blake to follow her.

Blake did so.

"Are you familiar with how Beacon's PSA functions?" asked Peach.

"A bit," replied Blake. "There's a written exam and then a physical one—with three components, right?"

"That is correct. I'll be administering your written exam myself. The physical portions will either be administered by Glynda or one of the other more combat oriented professors."

That made sense.

Professor Peach continued. "Although, that's not to say all the physical components of the exam are combat focused. The second one is. The first focuses on cardiovascular endurance and physical strength. The third focuses on decision-making in complex environments."

Blake nodded along with the professor. She had read up on all these details—but it was still good to review.

Blake didn't pay much attention to her surroundings as they entered the school. She was too busy reviewing information in her head. The closer she came to taking the test the more nervous she became. And the more nervous she became, the more jumbled and convoluted everything she had studied became.

Before long she found herself in a locker area.

Peach handed her a slip of paper.

"You've been given a temporary locker for the duration of the test period. Please store anything on your person, including scrolls, keys, and weapons in your locker. For the duration of the written exam you should not have anything on you—except your clothing, of course. I'll be right here, awaiting your return."

Blake quickly located her locker, stored her belongings, and returned to the professor.

Professor Peach lead them through several halls until stopping in front of a door. "Do you need to use the restroom? Drink some water? Make a call? Anything of that nature?"

Blake shook her head.

"Very well." Peach swiped her scroll and opened the door.

Blake followed her in.

The classroom was well lit. Most of the room's usual chairs and desks had been folded or stacked in the corners. There was one chair and desk set up for a student, only a few feet away from the teacher's desk.

"You can take a seat."

Blake promptly sat.

Peach picked up a small pile of paper, about ten pages. She also produced three sharpened pencils. She set them both in front of Blake. "You will have two hours to complete this test. Pencils, should you need them, can be found on my desk." She motioned towards the cup of sharpened pencils on her desk. "Generally, the protocol if you have any questions is to raise your hand and approach my desk when I acknowledge you—but as you are the only one testing today, I believe simply speaking up will be fine. Do you have any concerns, questions, or requests before you begin the test?"

Blake shook her head.

Peach smiled, setting the test and pencils before her. "Good luck Ms. Belladonna."

Blake didn't waste even a second. She picked up a pencil and flipped over the test immediately.

She read the first question. She read it again.

She knew this.

She could do this.

She brought pencil to paper.

"Please set your pencil down Ms. Belladonna."

Blake looked up, startled.

Professor Peach was reading something on her scroll.

Blake reluctantly set her pencil down. What was going on? Why was she being interrupted fifteen seconds into the test?

Professor Peach stood. "The headmaster has requested your presence."

Blake blanched.

They knew. They knew she was ex White Fang. They knew she was a criminal.

"Please follow me," said Peach, heading for the door.

Blake eyes flitted towards the windows. They looked solid. And she didn't have her weapon.

Shit.

She didn't have her weapon.

Blake followed the professor out of the classroom and down a hall, mind racing all the while.

What were her options?

She could try to retrieve her weapon. But she hadn't paid enough attention on her journey to or from the locker room. Besides—what good was her weapon going to do against full-fledged huntsmen and huntresses?

She could run to whatever exit was nearest. But then what? Commandeer a bullhead? Wander through the wilderness back to Vale?

And both of those plans assumed she could even escape Professor Peach. How fast was she? The woman had implied that she was one of the less-combat-oriented instructors at Beacon—but Blake was pretty sure every instructor at Beacon was a current or retired hunter.

So, what did _less-combat-oriented_ even mean? Was she bad at combat? Or was she just less proficient than her peers but still leagues above Blake?

They rounded another corner. Blake could hear her heart thundering, feel her blood rushing.

But then again…

Wasn't this good?

Headmaster Ozpin, he was no ordinary principal. His reach and influence were wide, extraordinarily so. If there was anyone who could put an end to an attack on Vale before it happened, it was him. If they already knew she was White Fang—then she could confess, offer to help. Maybe she would receive leniency. Maybe she wouldn't.

At least someone would try to stop Adam.

There was John, but John seemed more focused on Cinder than the White Fang. If he stopped her. And Ozpin stopped Adam. Vale would be safe.

The best possible result.

Even if she wound up in prison.

"I'll take it from here professor."

Blake was startled from her considerations by a new voice.

A blond-haired woman with piercing green eyes.

Professor Peach left with a quick, "it was lovely to meet you Ms. Belladonna."

It felt as if the, "enjoy the rest of your life behind bars" was implied.

Blake took quick stock of her new guide. She had a strict appearance. But she worked in a school, right?

Didn't strict looking teachers usually have a hidden warmth?

"My name is Glynda Goodwitch. You _will_ call me Ms. Goodwitch."

Blake nodded hurriedly. What a scary tone. She wondered if the woman was particularly irritated by her, or if this was just her normal demeanor.

Either way, looked like that warmth planned to stay hidden.

Glyn—Ms. Goodwitch ushered her into an elevator.

Blake watched the doors close with a sense of finality.

"I apologize."

The pronouncement caught Blake off guard. She peeled her gaze away from the closed doors and toward Ms. Goodwitch.

The woman was pinching the bridge of her nose.

"It was unfair of me to take that tone with you. Your mentor has been…making me miserable."

So that was that. They knew. Not only did they know she was White Fang, they knew she worked closely with Adam.

It might have been a bit of a stretch to call him a mentor considering he was only two years older, but there was no doubt that he had taught her.

He had taught her a lot.

And if he was making Ms. Goodwitch's life miserable that meant he was nearby didn't it?

Was Adam in Vale?

"I also apologize for stopping you just as you began the test. If you had informed us that you were personally mentored and trained by a fully licensed huntsman, we would not have assigned you a practical skill assessment."

Blake considered what Ms. Goodwitch had just said. And then considered it some more. And some more. And some more.

No.

None of it made sense.

None at all.

It made so little sense, in fact, that Blake wasn't sure how to express her confusion. What did she ask? Where did she begin?

The only thing that came to mind was dumbly saying "huh?"

And that would make her sound moronic.

Ms. Goodwitch did not strike her as the type of woman who much tolerated morons.

The elevator reached the intended floor with a small shudder.

The doors opened.

Suddenly the world made sense again.

It was far more infuriating and stupid and ridiculous.

But it made sense.

"Blake, my beloved disciple!"

Blake took in the room quickly. Six people, including herself. That was pretty much all she could get, since one particular individual was drawing her enraged attention like a magnet.

"John," she acknowledged him.

"Call me master," he replied.

Hell no.

 **Well, there you go. Definitely the lightest chapter of this fanfic. Didn't even get a Jaune POV. That said, I have to bring the roller coaster out of the swamp at some point—how else am I going disconnect the tracks and let the plot plummet into a volcano?**

 **Much love,**

 **Vronsurd.**

 **Beta'd by Mystery Beta**

 **Pa tr e on . com (forward slash) vronsurd**


	10. Glynda Gets Gawked

**So, some guy (you know who you are friend) in the reviews said I'm not even in his top 50 for productivity in fanfic authors. Like not even 49th place man?**

 **I was so personally hurt—I decided to write another giant chapter immediately.**

 **Lol. Just goes to show you…**

 **Drop a review and say something clever. I might drop everything and write a chapter just for you.**

 **I'm also updating because I didn't want my "arse hunted" lol.**

 **All that said. A lot of people like Pip. I'm glad. My beta literally threatened to end my life if I gave her a bad end.**

 **I'm glad no one was too put off with the last chapter's tone and humor. I wanted this fic to be more of a roller coaster. Chapter one is angsty. Chapter two is sort of lighter adventure. Chapter three is humorous. Chapters 3-6 are angsty adventure.**

 **Etcetera…**

 **I'm actually halfway done with a chapter of Guitar Huntsman too, so expect that sooner rather than later.**

 **People should tell me what they thought of volume 6. I haven't watched it yet. (Because, I swear I'm actually busy, not just playing Fortnite 6 hours a day.)**

 **I got some questions from people—one of them being the person who inspired this chapter so soon—asking about how I integrated the humor so naturally into the story—especially since a lot of it was dark.**

 **The answer is simple: come up with weird situations that fit naturally into the plot, write clever dialogue, utilize the POV character's internal musings to create an ironic disconnection with reality, and highlight the clash between diverse personalities—from there the humor basically writes itself.**

 **My Beta says that's a B.S. synopsis that won't help anyone.**

 **Unfortunately, there's not much more to say, because that's how I set up humorous scenes.**

 **Though I will say this: picking out the right POV is important as hell.**

 **I rewrote the scene with Pip, Blake, and Jaune standing off in the hall three times. The first was Jaune's perspective. Which wasn't funny at all. He's completely calm but amused in the situation. His perspective was _booooorrrrinnnnggg._**

 **Then I tried Pip. Didn't work either. It was kind of funny—but not really because it was too early to do what I wanted to do with her internal dialogue. And mostly she just needs to be genuinely scared throughout the scene, which makes even funny proceedings sort of dark.**

 **I settled on Blake and suddenly the scene was perfect. She's freaking out internally, she has character traits that exacerbate the situation in a funny way, she has a fundamental misunderstanding about the situation of which the reader is aware, but she is not…**

 **Plus, her naturally dry personality let's her play the straight-man when I need it.**

 **Just making the right POV decision for each scene can make scenes more fun. The landlord scene was most fun from Pip's perspective, Adam's arrival in Vale was most fun from Trill's…**

 **This can also be applied to combat scenes. Want to make your main character a BAMF? Use his perspective sparingly.**

 **Example #1:**

 **"Jaune glanced at the civilian he had just saved, assessing if his injuries were life threatening.**

 **Then he turned his eyes to this new enemy.**

 **He studied him.**

 **His opponent did the same.**

 **A long time ago a killer of this caliber might have posed a challenge.**

 **Now though?**

 **He dashed toward his enemy.**

 **The man wasn't slow. Not by any stretch of the imagination.**

 **But he wasn't fast enough.**

 **He raised his guard, to block the feinted right towards his nose.**

 **Jaune's left burrowed into his kidney.**

 **Ribs… Organs… Muscles…**

 **Spine.**

 **Jaune felt it all collapsing under his fist.**

 **And then his opponent was gone, soaring into the nearest building.**

 **Chances of him surviving were slim.**

 **Chances of him surviving without living the rest of his life in a hospital?**

 **None.**

 **Jaune almost felt bad for him. Almost.**

 **He was too busy to give more than an ounce of pity."**

 **Hmm…not bad. But is it the most effective POV?**

 **How about we write it from the perspective of a civilian?**

 **Example #2:**

 **"Mark watched the huntsmen stare each other down. His eyes flickered between the two warriors.**

 **What were they doing?**

 **Was it like those martial arts movies, where the two fighters would carefully analyze each others' defenses before the battle commenced?**

 **Or was it—**

 **Mark's thoughts were cut off by an alarm blaring in his brain.**

 **He'd just seen something.**

 **Or rather, he hadn't seen it.**

 **He blinked when it started.**

 **And, somehow, during the duration of that blink, it ended.**

 **One moment the blonde huntsman…**

 **The one who had saved him…**

 **The one who had cut a goddamn roof in half…**

 **One moment he was standing still, a little to Mark's right.**

 **And then, suddenly, he was somewhere else entirely, a trail of raised dust the only evidence that Mark didn't just imagine his former position.**

 **The dark huntsman moved almost as quickly the blonde huntsman—although it wasn't of his own volition.**

 **His body folded in the most horrifying way, like a yoga instructor who had somehow managed to make the side-to-side flexibility of her spine equal to its front-to-back.**

 **Mark had never seen something so big skip on pavement like a rock across a pond. Ten feet. Twenty feet. Thirty feet.**

 **Then the corpse—because it had to be one at this point, it just had to be—hit a wall, releasing a sickening _crack_ that was probably a mixture of both concrete _and_ bone…"**

 **Now isn't that interesting? Rather than get into how cool and collected and easy it is for Jaune. I get into the sheer physicality of what he's doing. The civilian is watching Jaune with awe, and that awe gets conveyed to the reader.**

 **Here's a 3rd Example, from the enemy's perspective.**

 **"Noneofit flexed his fists in anticipation.**

 **Another huntsman to tear apart.**

 **Excellent.**

 **He'd already gone through three, and they'd only managed to whet his appetite.**

 **Who would have guessed that dropping a building on a gnat—he glanced at the weakling out of the corner of his vision—would garner the attention of a lion?**

 **Not that a lion was _much_ better than a gnat to someone like Noneofit. Swatting bugs and killing predators were practically the same thing to a god.**

 **And that's what he was.**

 **A god.**

 **Blondie didn't look like he would make the first move. Maybe he wanted to stay at a range where he could protect the gnat—in case Noneofit decided to go for him first.**

 **This was the problem with huntsman and huntresses. Sure, some of them were strong—but they were always thinking about protecting _this_ or saving _that_. They never took the time to focus on winning the fight.**

 **So, they died.**

 **Noneofit continued to meet blondie's gaze unwaveringly. He had strong eyes. And an unflinching face. As well as a large scar stretched from chin to brow.**

 **Shit.**

 **His head would look good mounted.**

 **Noneofit tensed his legs, preparing to use his semblance to burst forward.**

 **If blondie wasn't coming to him then he would—**

 **Noneofit's train of thought met a brick wall as his brain screamed at him to watch out.**

 **The fist was two feet away.**

 **A lifetime in most other situations.**

 **But considering that same fist had just traveled twenty feet in the time it took for him to think a single thought…**

 **Noneofit raised his guard.**

 **It didn't matter.**

 **Pain.**

 **It lanced through his body, interrupting his thoughts, aborting his senses.**

 **It came from the left. He couldn't see what caused it. The jab must have been a feint.**

 **Fortunately, Noneofit was a warrior. He'd been caught unaware many times. He knew how to rapidly move his aura, how to mitigate the damage of a knife to the back by activating aura as soon as he felt the prick.**

 **He moved his aura from his arms to his side. Then he brought down his elbow, to further mitigate damage and his enemy's follow through.**

 **His eyes met the huntsman's. The man looked tired. Not physically. But mentally.**

 **But "tired" wasn't quite the right word.**

 **He mostly looked…bored.**

 **Noneofit gritted his teeth. He'd wipe that look right off the huntsman's face in a moment.**

 **But then his aura broke.**

 **And then his arm broke.**

 **And then his ribs broke.**

 **And then he was rolling, bouncing, flying.**

 **And then it all stopped, hard.**

 **All he saw was darkness. All he heard was ringing. All he smelled was copper. All he tasted was bile. And all he felt was fire…**

 **How…?**

 **Why…?**

 **What ev—**

 **And then he thought no more."**

 **See the differences from those perspectives? I mean, you still must be a good writer. But this is one of the secrets to good storytelling.**

 **So, there you have it. How to make a top ten-anime fight in written form.**

 **Although that's only like thirty percent. The other seventy is building up the emotional stakes leading into the battle so that the actual combat has an emotional catharsis element to it.**

 **But no way I'm gonna try to explain how to do that here.**

 **Mmm, so I answered next to nothing about humor, but whatever…**

 **On to the chapter.**

 **Don't expect this one to be _as_ funny as the last. There's some more serious stuff to address.**

 **Also, My beta only beta's for content, not grammar and stuff. So, forgive the small mistakes. Please and thank you.**

 **Without further ado…**

 **The Shield of Vale Chapter 10**

 **Glynda Gets Gawked**

 **-or-**

 **Taurus is Taken to Task**

Deep breaths.

Calm mind.

Find her center.

Become a part of the situation without letting the situation becoming a part of her.

Collected.

Calm.

At peace.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale…

Oum. Shit. Damn. Hell. Motherfu—

"Blake?"

Blake's attention snapped to the teacher on her right.

"Sorry…I just…" her gaze drifted back toward John's whimsical smile.

She could feel her blood boiling _harder_ —if that was even possible.

"It's been a while since you've seen your mentor, hasn't it?" said Glynda. "John says you've been operating on your own for the last few months—that's why you applied to Beacon without his recommendation."

Right.

 _That's_ why she applied to Beacon without his recommendation.

Okay.

How to respond?

She could deny that John was her mentor…

But that would just call her background into question.

Which could result in her messing up what was looking like a surefire enrollment into Beacon.

It could also end with Beacon leadership discovering she was White Fang.

So…what were her options…?

Did she even have any?

Her gaze slipped back to Jaune's shit-eating grin.

The fury burned.

Then there was Pip, standing beside John.

She looked nervous and amused.

Mostly amused.

Blake remembered the smirking devil face the dog-faunus had left on her note.

They were in this together. Torturing her.

What had she ever done to Pip? Aside from help her acknowledge her sudden, inappropriate, Stockholm-ish, intensely-physical, lust for John?

Is this how she was to be thanked for her support?

She returned her attention to Jaune. Somehow—his smile was even bigger.

Fine.

Shit was on.

I*I*I

It was absurd how much he was enjoying himself.

If messing with baby-Blake was this much fun—he couldn't imagine the joy of irritating baby-Weiss.

The Weiss from his time was too even-keeled and soft-spoken. Sure, she'd still turn a little crimson when she was particularly irritated or embarrassed—but it took a lot of effort to elicit those sorts of responses from her.

More than it was usually worth.

If Jaune remembered correctly, one could set off teeny-Weiss by so much as looking at her incorrectly.

There were good times ahead.

Of course, he couldn't forget his purpose.

In the end, poking fun at the younger versions of his closest friends was great—but he couldn't allow it to distract from his end-goals. Not even for even a moment.

Especially since he was enacting what was meant to be a two-person plan by himself.

Still, he, Weiss, and Ruby had spent _so_ much time discussing how they would make fun of their younger counterparts—well, mostly he and Ruby discussed it, but Weiss made suggestions. It would be a shame to throw away all that hard work _now_.

Especially since it didn't cost him anything.

Not time. Not money. Not effort.

This was still the plan.

He needed to come to Beacon.

He needed to introduce himself to Ozpin.

Just…

Why not do so in a way that made Blake's ears twitch?

Jaune stole a quick glance at the girl's bow. It was moving. Slightly. But it was moving.

He hummed.

The question at hand now was: how would Blake respond?

He had to have pissed her off. He had to. She'd managed to maintain a decent poker face upon seeing him, but Jaune knew that was just a mask.

The bow moved for a lot of reasons. But in _this_ situation, he doubted it was from pleasure.

She could deny that he was her mentor. Pretend she didn't even know him…

But how would she explain him knowing so much about her?

How would she even explain him knowing her name?

Plus, a denial at this point would just make the circumstances of her enrollment look more suspicious. The last thing Blake wanted was suspicion.

She couldn't afford to blow her chance at Beacon.

Of course, what Blake didn't know was that there was absolutely no way Jaune would let Ozpin or Glynda stop her from attending this school.

Although, given Ozpin's rather… _frivolous_ track record concerning student admittance Jaune was fairly certain there wasn't much Blake could do that would mess up her entrance.

Blake opened her mouth.

Jaune couldn't wait to hear what she had to say.

"I didn't know you were back in town _master…"_

Jaune suppressed his smirk.

She could barely hide her disdain for his ill-gotten title.

But she said it. Which meant he won.

Blake continued, "…I didn't know if you were ever coming back after you skipped town with that _whore_."

Jaune's brain lagged for a second.

Whore?

He glanced at Pip. She returned his confusion.

"No," clarified Blake. "Not _that_ one. She looks about your age. I'm talking about the whore who was about _my_ age."

Jaune's confusion faded as he watched Glynda's face get harder and harder with every passing second.

There was a very short list of individuals on Remnant Jaune cared one way or another about pissing off, whose anger he found concerning.

The list had five members.

Glynda Goodwitch's name took up two of the five slots.

It wasn't that she was stronger than him. This Glynda was nowhere near as strong as the Glynda from his future.

And he was stronger than that Glynda too.

Well… _stronger_ probably wasn't the right word.

He could beat her in a fight.

Eventually.

He could beat just about anyone in a fight.

Eventually.

So, no, it wasn't her power that had always made Jaune a little apprehensive around Glynda.

What remained consistent between this Glynda and the other from the future, was her glare.

While most glares, including that of a dark goddess pushed to the brink of her powers, left Jaune Arc unfazed…

Glynda's reminded him of his mother's.

And as Jaune had discovered not so long ago, Jaune Arc, slayer of Goliaths and Shield of Vale, was still a little scared—more accurately stated, absolutely terrified—of his mother.

Plus, Glynda's glare made him feel like he was her student again—so that didn't help.

"I don't know what—" Jaune began.

Blake interrupted, poker face still strong, although showing a hint of smugness. "—I'm talking about? That's exactly what you said when I pinched her license and showed you that she was _barely_ legal."

The intensity of Glynda's glare strengthened.

Huh.

So, this was why you didn't screw around with your plan.

At least Blake was kind enough to say his imaginary girlfriend was _barely_ legal. How much worse would this be if she'd instead gone with "two-years-under"?

He clearly needed to defuse this situation.

Stop Glynda from trying to glare a hole through him. Stop Blake from dropping bombs.

He could do this. He just needed to be diplomatic. He just needed to channel his inner Weiss.

Before he could open his mouth, someone behind him started clapping, slowly.

Shit.

He'd forgotten Qrow was here.

"Looks like we've found ourselves another blonde Casanova."

Jaune watched Qrow approach.

"Taiyang never slept with children Qrow," said Glynda. Her voice was…

Well it was kind of terrifying.

Jaune wanted to scream.

He'd never slept with a child either!

" _Barely legal_ Glynda, which means fresh out of childhood and ripe for the pickings." Qrow patted his back. "Am I right John?"

Jaune dared not open his mouth, not until he had figured out how to dig himself out of this hole.

"Man…" began Qrow, again.

Jaune met Qrow's eyes.

The alcoholic looked shockingly sobered. Which was a bad sign. Qrow's wit only grew more acerbic without some drink in his system to temper his cynicism. Plus, Jaune could see malice in the man's eyes. He was all kinds of pissed about the way Jaune had shown up in the middle of his mission with two injured kids, slept for a while, and then left without a single explanation.

Jaune turned back to Blake. She was obviously struggling to control her features. Her entire face clearly wanted to scream, "victory!"

Qrow glanced from Jaune to Blake and back again. Several times. "It's like I'm back in school. Let me guess. The _tramp_ he ran off with a while back was 18 and it's disgusting because she was such a child—but you're nineteen and an adult and he " _belongs_ " with you?"

"W-what!?" sputtered Blake. "I'm seventeen!"

"Oof, he skipped town right before you hit his threshold? Was that hard on you?"

Blake's bow twitched aggressively.

Jaune had wanted to see the ribbon do just that. But this wasn't quite how he had envisioned it going.

He couldn't quite enjoy it when the look Glynda was giving him was making him feel twitchy as well.

The hidden faunus shot him a look that screamed, "fix this." Jaune wasn't sure what Blake expected him to do. Or why she expected him to do anything. Hadn't she dug a solid eighty-percent of this hole? Not to say he hadn't provoked her but…who even kept track of that sort of thing?

"Are you drunk?" asked Blake, turning her attention back to the Branwen who had offended her.

"Not as much as I wish I was."

Jaune really wanted to hear what Blake would say next because there was absolute venom in her eyes. But unfortunately, Ozpin chose that moment to interrupt.

"Alright, I believe that's enough of… _that_. There are more… _important_ matters to which we must attend."

There was little doubt as to what Ozpin was referring. He wanted to know of Jaune's connection to Salem. He wanted to know what Jaune meant when he said Lionheart was dirty. He was already well beyond the matter of Blake Belladonna's acceptance.

Jaune breathed an invisible sigh of relief.

He had been the one to initiate this whole thing, purely to mess with Blake. But the fun and games had not been going his way since the moment he entered the room. Best let Ozpin set things back on course with his singular determination and focus.

"No." Glynda's voice was a brick house. She glanced between Blake and Jaune.

"Glyn—" began Ozpin.

She didn't even look at Ozpin as she interrupted him. She kept her attention on Jaune. "Explain your relationship, _now_."

Jaune met Glynda's acidic gaze.

It, kind of made him want to run away.

Was messing with Blake worth this? It wasn't a difficult question to answer.

Hell no, it wasn't.

Why the hell had he done this to himself?

Jaune mentally prepared himself for a very uncomfortable conversation as he parted his lips.

Before he could say a word, Pip spoke.

"There's nothing romantic or sexual between John and Blake. He's been training her personally for a while. That's it."

Glynda slowly turned her scathing eyes toward Pip.

Jaune was impressed by how well the faunus held her gaze.

"I apologize," said Glynda, deliberately. "I believe John said your name was Pip, but I went downstairs to greet Ms. Belladonna before I heard your…role in all this."

Uh-oh.

Jaune hadn't given Pip much prepping before bringing her here. He'd just told her everything would be fine, and that they were both going to support and make fun of Blake at the same time.

She had mumbled something about "work" and "fire" or something…

But she agreed immediately when he asked a second time.

On their flight over, Jaune hadn't bothered to discuss a backstory or establish what she should say. Instead, he talked about the people they would be meeting: Ozpin and Glynda—and maybe Qrow.

The reason he'd felt no need to discuss her cover, was because he intended to introduce her as his girlfriend.

She hadn't seemed to mind much when he used that cover on her piece-of-shit landlord. And it was a simple explanation for who she was to him.

It didn't quite cover why she was _here_ with him. But it was enough right?

After all, it wasn't a cover he or she needed to maintain for long.

He needed to convince the people in this room—excluding Pip and Blake—that he was from the future. Once he had accomplished that, there was little need for deception. He could say Pip and Blake were allies.

No need for further explanation than that.

And _why_ had he decided to bring Pip along?

Well…

It didn't seem like it would do any harm.

And he _had_ promised to protect her—which he couldn't exactly do from miles away.

Although, to be honest, the actual threat to Pip's life was…dubious, at best.

Regardless, he liked Pip's company and she seemed willing enough, so she was along for the ride.

What was done was done.

He began to speak, ready to introduce her as his "better half," hoping that would salvage some of his introduction.

Pip moved forward—toward the angry Goodwitch—before he could say a word.

"Thank you for asking. _They_ …" She jerked a thumb back toward Qrow and Ozpin. "…didn't bother. And _he_ …" She motioned toward Jaune. "Didn't think to introduce me."

Glynda's eyes followed her motions, landing on the individuals to whom Pip was motioning, narrowing on Ozpin in particular.

"My name's Pip Perinto." Pip held out a hand. Glynda stared at the proffered limb for a half-second.

Jaune thought she might reject the shake. Which—damn—would have been cold. But he was reminded that the headmistress was far too polite for that when she grasped Pip's hand.

"Glynda Goodwitch."

Pip nodded. "I know. John told me about you. I'm John's assistant."

Assistant?

Jaune kept his groan internal.

Was assistant the best she could come up with?

Sure, she kind of looked like one, what with the white blouse and pencil skirt and heels...

But Jaune was a huntsman. Ozpin, Qrow, and Glynda _knew_ he was a huntsman.

What use did a huntsman have for a civvy assistant?

"Assistant?" replied Glynda.

"Yes," said Pip.

"What sorts of tasks do you assist him with?"

Check and mate.

What was Pip going to say?

That she was out there on the battlefield with a syringe and some bandages?

Huntsman didn't need assistants.

"I help John track his finances, pay bills, prioritize hunts, track down enemies, purchase groceries, schedule doctor's appointments, manage ongoing feuds, stay on task with planned events, maintain his weapons—" she glanced at the sword on Jaune's hip, rolling her eyes in an exaggerated fashion. "—The ones that aren't in complete disrepair. Essentially, I assist John with anything he needs or wants—well, anything that doesn't directly involve swinging his sword around."

Holy shit.

Jaune had to keep himself from gaping.

That sounded amazing.

Why the hell _didn't_ he have an assistant?

Aside from, of course, his complete inability to pay them a fair wage.

"That sounds like a very…involved job."

"It is. But if John's going to keep doing what he does, someone's got to keep the water on, make sure he eats, maintain an itinerary, organize his ideas, figure out the legal ramifications of his actions..."

Jaune watched the light in Glynda's eyes change. It was subtle. But he'd spent enough time around his Glynda, the Glynda from his time, to know it was a glint of respect—or, perhaps…camaraderie?

"…anyway," continued Pip. "I assure you nothing about John and Blake's relationship is improper—aside from their ridiculous habit of humiliating one another in front of strangers. John did not run off with an eighteen-year-old. And Blake does not call John master. And their relationship is just teacher-and-student—well, as much as that's possible between two children."

Jaune didn't even care that he'd been called a child. For a moment, it was like he was back with team WRJ. Where he could just let Weiss do all the thinking and talking. There was no way Pip was _that_ smart. But she was clearly good at talking to people. And if she was even a quarter as organized as the heiress…

Well, he'd have a lot more reason to keep her around than "enjoying her company."

"You have an assistant!? What kind of huntsman has an assistant!?"

Jaune rolled his eyes at Qrow's uneducated outburst.

The real question here was, what kind of ignorant-ass huntsman couldn't see the benefits of having an assistant?

Pip replied before Jaune could.

"The kind with a _lot_ of ass to kick and not enough hours in his day."

Hell yes.

There had to be some way he could get money to actually hire her as an assistant.

He _could_ just tell Roman to give him some lien…

Or maybe Ozpin would fork over some cash after he convinced him he was from the future…?

Oh yeah.

That's right.

Convincing Ozpin and company that he was from the future.

That's why he was here. Not to torment Blake or recruit Pip.

He'd told himself he wouldn't get lost in all this extra stuff, but he'd still managed to do just that.

This was why…

He needed a goddamn assistant.

"Alright," Jaune cleared his throat. "Ozpin's right, we have some pretty important stuff to discuss. Blake and I being here on the same day is a coincidence. I've been gone for a while, out of contact. I needed to talk to you all. Pip told me Blake was taking the PSA to get in because I wasn't around to give her a recommendation. So, I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone." Jaune met Blake's eyes, trying to convey that he truly wasn't here to ruin her life. "I would make sure you all know how qualified Blake is to be at this school, so she doesn't have to jump through the hoops. And I'd have that conversation that Qrow was whining about during our ride into Vale."

"I don't whine," said Qrow. His eyes narrowed. "And weren't you _asleep_ when I was whining?"

"Was I?" replied Jaune.

Qrow's eyes narrowed further.

"Glynda," began Jaune, turning towards his former combat teacher. "This isn't a conversation Blake or Pip needs to hear. Could you set them up with lunch or something? I have a feeling this is going to take a while."

It was early for lunch. But Jaune had a feeling this conversation wasn't going to be the shortest.

Glynda nodded and produced her scroll. "I'll ask Professor Peach to meet them downstairs."

"Wait," said Blake. "Have I been accepted?"

Ozpin and Glynda shared a brief look.

"Yes," said Glynda. "You are more than qualified to partake in initiation."

Thank Oum for that.

How much more complicated would things be if they said no? Or worse yet, they asked Jaune for actual evidence that he was a licensed huntsman.

Jaune hadn't possessed official documentation of his profession in years.

Pip approached him with a sort of…professionalism. It was strange, as it had been entirely absent from all their past interactions.

"Do you require anything else from me, John?"

Jaune smiled at her. It wasn't exactly forced. "Nope, I'm good Pip. Excellent work, as always."

Pip nodded.

"You all may take the elevator down to the lobby. Please wait there. Depending on what she's doing, it may be a few minutes before Professor Peach can meet you."

Jaune watched Pip and Blake walk away thoughtfully.

He didn't have Weiss or Ruby. But he could still put together a team.

Of course, for now, he needed to focus on making allies of the people in this room.

But, eventually, he'd likely need individuals who would trust him completely. People who were willing to believe in him even if what he claimed defied common-sense.

Ozpin's people weren't those people.

But they were still today's goal.

Jaune licked his lips. "So…where should I begin?"

I*I*I

Blake whirled toward Pip the moment the elevator doors shut. "What was that!?"

"John thought it would be funny if we—"

"Not that," interrupted Blake. She already had a pretty good idea of how _that_ came about. John wanted to mess with her, and Pip was happy to oblige.

"All that assistant stuff. Did Jaune tell you to say that?"

Pip's face reddened. She averted her eyes and shook her head. "No. Jaune didn't tell me what I was supposed to say if they asked me who I was. I just thought _personal-assistant_ would sound better than _woman-kidnapped-from-the-White-Fang_."

"That's it? That was just you making up a cover on-the-fly?"

Blake could hardly believe it. Sure, she'd know people who were good at that sort of thing over the years. The prime example being Trill. The bat faunus could be anywhere and anyone. And he didn't even need to think about a sensible cover story—it just flowed out of him.

"Well, it was pretty easy since I work as an assistant for real—sort of."

Ah. That made sense.

But still…she'd gone from timid to professional on the drop of a dime. Even the clothes she was wearing were professional. Although Blake had a feeling the selection had less to do with anticipating her act, and more to do with the way the skirt hugged her hips and flattered her ample bosom.

Although… she hadn't gone all the way.

One less button done, and she'd have really given Jaune some eye-candy.

"Sort of?"

"Well…I'm good at what I do, so my boss keeps me around. But…he doesn't want to be seen with me in public, so Felicity stays with him throughout the day while I field calls, organize his schedule, keep his projects straight—that sort of thing. Part-time of course. No benefits for me."

"Felicity's a human?"

Pip nodded.

"And she's full-time?"

Pip nodded again.

"Is she better at the job than you?"

"Depends on what kind of job you're talking about. The job we're paid to do? No. The blowing kind? Then yeah, probably."

"That's…" Blake trailed off.

Unfair?

Disgusting?

Repulsive?

There were plenty of words to describe that situation. But none that Pip likely hadn't already told herself. And Pip wasn't speaking with anger or rage. She was well past that stage. Now she was speaking with resignation.

So, instead of exclaiming how _she_ felt about the situation, Blake decided to just let the woman vent a little.

Huh.

Maybe she was growing as a person.

"I guess if your boss can afford two assistants, it's his right to have two."

Holy crap.

Were those the most difficult words she had ever spoken?

"Yeah," replied Pip, looking away.

They stepped out of the elevator as Blake continued to study Pip. Professor Peach had yet to arrive, so they moved a few feet to the left.

"He doesn't, does he?" said Blake, remembering the state of Pip's rundown apartment.

"Doesn't what?" replied Pip.

"He doesn't pay the two of you a fair wage."

Pip smiled. It looked forced. "Felicity seems to be doing pretty well."

Blake ground her teeth. Was it still the most mature and responsible action to keep her vitriol and loathing locked away?

"It could be worse," continued Pip. "There are plenty of faunus working in dust mines."

Gah.

Blake hated that phrase. _It could be worse_. It was like an excuse faunus gave to their oppressors. Every situation that had ever happened throughout all of time could always be "worse." It wasn't an excuse for inertia. It wasn't a reason to avoid change.

"And I _am_ working part time, maybe we're paid the same per hour."

Pip's tone revealed that she didn't believe that to be remotely possible.

"I'm sorry," said Blake. "You shouldn't be treated that way."

"And you shouldn't have to hide behind that bow."

Blake hummed. She shouldn't. But…was anyone _forcing_ her to wear it? She'd like to think so. But perhaps she was just being a coward…

"Well, look at it this way. I probably won't have to deal with _that_ problem anymore. Since I didn't call or go in to work today. I'm ninety-percent sure that I'm now unemployed."

"You had work today?" exclaimed Blake. "Why'd you come here?"

Pip's face turned a bit redder. "W-well. John asked me. I tried to tell him I had to go to work and that I'd get fired...but he didn't hear me."

Blake quirked an eyebrow. "And then he tied you up and brought you here at sword-point?"

Pip shook her head, face enflaming even more. "No," she squeaked. "I just didn't say anything else."

"Why didn't you call?" asked Blake.

"I don't know," replied Pip, groaning. "Something about being with John makes me all…weird. I wanted to call my boss and tell him to go screw himself. I settled on letting the _screw yourself_ be implicit."

That weird feeling Pip was describing had a name.

Safe.

She felt safe with John.

Which, to be fair, who wouldn't?

Who was going to mess with you when you had a guy like John in your corner? Who wouldn't feel empowered to tell their tormentors what they thought of them if John was glowering at them from over your shoulder?

"Speaking of John," said Pip, voice laced with nervous energy. "Do you think he was okay with my performance? I was _so_ nervous. I kept thinking, do huntsman even have assistants? Does he want me to just stay quiet? Does he need my help? I thought my heart was going to just…stop."

"Well," began Blake. She recalled John's face when Pip introduced herself as his assistant. Best described as an Oum-dammit-face, an expression which, at the time, made sense to her.

John was a huntsman. Pip introducing herself as an assistant was a dumb move. What did a huntsman need with an untrained, no-aura, assistant?

Then she recalled the transformation that occurred in his features as Pip described the many tasks she supposedly performed for him, an expression best described as the face-of-a-starving-man-staring-at-a-steak-dinner.

By the time Pip told that irritating drunk that John was the kind of huntsman "with a _lot_ of ass to kick and not enough hours in his day" John looked borderline ecstatic.

"Honestly?"

Pip nodded.

"I think your administrative skills might be the fastest way into John's pants."

"Blake!" Pip whisper-shouted as she turned crimson.

"Heart—I meant to say heart."

Funny enough, she had meant to say heart. Pip's confession that Jaune made her feel all safe and warm and protected confirmed that there was probably a bit more to her desires than lust.

Pip hadn't known him long enough for Blake to call it true love or anything like that. But it was safe to say that the dog-faunus was enamored.

And whether "assistant" was a cover likely to deceive Ozpin hardly mattered. John seemed to like the idea quite a bit. If there was one thing Blake had learned from her novels—the ones where the female-protagonist was more active in taking what she wanted—it was that all you needed to get the relationship moving was a way in—an excuse to spend as much time together as possible. From there, it didn't take long for things to escalate in most…wonderful ways.

"—so?"

Blake snapped back to Pip. She'd been distracted and Pip was speaking in a microscopic voice. "What did you say?"

"I said," began Pip, speaking a little louder. "Do you really think so? I mean, wouldn't John want a human—and a huntress? Is he even attracted to…?" she trailed off, motioning to herself.

Blake followed the motion of her hands. Pip wasn't unattractive. Not by a longshot. She lacked the body of a huntress of course.

She wasn't all lean and toned and muscular.

But she _was_ curvaceous with a cute face and a compact frame. Blake liked her own height and Pip was only about an inch-and-a-half shorter—which was close enough.

All and all, it came down to what John preferred. Huntsmen and huntresses often wound up together. But that certainly wasn't a rule.

In that book about the warrior and the two sisters the warrior often reveled in how soft the women were.

Softness. Some men liked softness.

Softness wasn't exactly a trait, physically or mentally, associated with huntresses.

If that was what Jaune wanted, then…

"I don't know." The corner of Blake's mouth twitched upwards. "Want me to ask him?"

Pip shook her head as if she was trying to dislodge something. "No! Please don't!"

Blake was surprised by her serious tone. She was expecting embarrassment and fluster. Not a sincere plea.

Pip continued, "I…need to think about…stuff first."

Wow.

Blake decided to stop teasing her. After all, there was no need for Blake to get revenge on Pip for that humiliating display up in the headmaster's office.

Pip would pay her back by her life becoming a new never-before-seen erotic novel. A novel played out in real time.

Blake paused, assaulted by an important sudden thought.

Should she be recording all this?

Maintaining a written record?

She'd thought about becoming a writer.

Maybe this was her chance to dip her toe in the water without wasting too much creative energy…

Sure, she'd have to embellish some things—but she had no doubt that this would make an excellent book. Hmm…but who would be the protagonist? Jaune or Pip? Usually her novels took the female perspective. But writing from Jaune's vantage could be interesting as well…

"Hello."

Professor Peach's voice drew Blake out of her thoughts.

"Glynda tells me the two of you are in need of some food and a space to wait?"

Blake and Pip nodded.

"Mm…Okay. Follow me. I'm a bit busy. But we have two other guests here with us and they've already received the full tour. I'm sure they'd be happy to show you around."

I*I*I

"Okay, this is going to be a weird conversation—so bear with me. This wasn't originally going to be my job. And my partners had certain advantages when it came to explaining all this. I don't. I'm still going to _try_ and make a compelling case. But it's more likely that you'll believe me gradually as more and more pieces fall into place. So, yeah. Just keep that in mind…"

Jaune was not off to a strong start here. In his defense, this wasn't supposed to be his job. And Ruby looked identical to her younger-self and near-identical to her mother so what they had planned for her to say was hardly going to work for him.

No one in this room knew his past self.

And even if they did—he'd changed big time—especially in the facial department. Ruby, on the other hand, still had the same baby-fat cheeks—even if she had gotten a bit taller and a bit more muscular.

"We promise to keep an open mind Mr…?"

Ozpin trailed off into an obvious probing question.

Jaune saw no reason not to answer honestly. "Arc."

"John…Arc…" said Ozpin, clearly recognizing the name.

There was a slight flinch in Glynda's expression as well.

All expected reactions.

Qrow was too busy to show a reaction. He was crouched to place him eye level with his flask, which was resting on Ozpin's desk. He had produced large brown bottle from somewhere and begun meticulously refilling his drink.

Also, an expected reaction.

"Might as well get right into it," muttered Jaune. Louder, he said, "I'm from the future."

Ozpin stared at him silently.

Glynda blink owlishly, before adjusting her spectacles.

And Qrow carefully finished topping his drink.

Unsurprisingly, Qrow was the first to speak. "If I had my flask ready, and this wasn't such damn good liquor, I want you to know I would have fully committed to a spit-take all over Ozpin's desk."

Jaune fought down a grin. He'd seen Qrow do a full spit-take before. It was a funny memory. "Noted."

"The future, Mr. Arc. That is…a fascinating claim."

Ozpin, surprisingly, sounded sincere.

"Well, I wouldn't call it a claim. It is a claim. But it's one-hundred-percent true, so it's better for all parties if you just _think of it_ as a fact."

" _John_ ," began Glynda. "This wouldn't happen to be another one of your poorly-timed jokes—would it?"

"Nope, I'm _actually_ from the future. I'm chock full of future memories too. Go ahead and ask me what Salem's planning. What's coming next? Who's who? What's where? I can tell you everything you'd ever want to know."

"Your use of that name, Salem. Mr. Arc, you sound very familiar with it. I would very much like to know how you came by it."

"What? Salem? I told you, I'm from the future. She's…a big deal there. Killed off most of the huntsman, most of the people—pretty much everything. Aren't you more interested in what I can tell you about what she's doing next? Don't you want me to prove I'm from the future?"

"To be honest, Mr. Arc," Ozpin reached for his mug. "It would not surprise me if you were able to tell me her plans. As the only individuals who know of her are those under my employment…and those under _hers_."

There was a weightiness to Ozpin's words, an accusation hidden not-so-subtly between the lines.

"What about Raven?"

"An anomaly," responded Ozpin, without missing a beat.

"A generous description for a mass murderer of your making."

"You do appear to be well informed Mr. Arc. But surely you can see how it would be more reasonable for us to conclude you are associated with our enemy—based on your knowledge. Rather than believing that you have jumped through time to relay information."

Jaune did. But he saw no reason to admit that. "How are the kids doing?"

"Excuse me?" replied Ozpin.

"Clint and Vul? They went through a lot at the bandit camp."

"They are…" Ozpin hesitated, trailing off.

Glynda picked up where he left off. "They are adjusting. Losing two teammates. Discovering that it was potentially their headmaster who put them in harm's way. Catching a glimpse of how dark the world can really be…"

Jaune noted Glynda's white knuckles and tense posture. There were only a few circumstances that could unsettle the perpetually composed woman.

Harming children. Harming students.

Those were two of them.

Glynda continued after exhaling. "They are recovering rapidly—all things considered. Most children would be unable to function after what they'd gone through. I have a feeling they picked up their coping methods from you."

"How so?"

"Vul, perhaps not fully. But Clint tells me he feels no grief and no anger because he's realized those emotions will get in the way of revenge. And he's gotten rid of anything that will get in the way of revenge."

Jaune blinked. "That does sound like…how I can sometimes be."

"How you handled the bandits, in the arena, left quite an impression on Clint. I believe he wishes to do the same to Lionheart."

Jaune nodded. "Well, he'll have to get in line for _that_ particular honor."

"It's not a particularly healthy obsession."

No.

It wasn't.

Jaune could personally attest to that. He'd fallen into it several times before. Rather than experience his grief, he shoved it into the deepest, darkest part of him and burned it like fuel as he single-mindedly sought vengeance.

Only the combined efforts of Ruby and Weiss could pull him out of that state.

"I'll talk to them."

Glynda nodded.

"Which brings us to an excellent discussion point," inserted Ozpin. "What has led you to the conclusion that the headmaster in Mistral has betrayed our cause?"

"In the future, we all discover that together."

"Do you have any other evidence you could present?" asked Ozpin.

"Nope," said Jaune. "But I don't think you'd have to poke around for long before you could find your own evidence."

"Which, naturally, you would claim as evidence that your claims of being from the future are true?"

Jaune agreed. "Naturally."

"Even though," continued Ozpin. "Your accuracy concerning Lionheart's supposed betrayal would still more likely be a result of an allegiance to Salem—rather than the result of a future ally traveling through time."

"If I was working with Salem, why would I reveal her plans to you?"

Ozpin took a sip from his mug.

"Because you are hoping to mislead us. Because you wish to earn our trust before betraying us."

Jaune nodded.

Yeah.

That was fair.

"You've got a point there. Me knowing Salem's plan could just as much be a sign that I'm working with her as it could be a sign that I'm from the future—"

"I think it's actually way more likely the first one," interjected Qrow.

Jaune continued, unperturbed. "But fortunately, since I'm _actually_ from the future. I don't just know Salem's plans. I know yours. And Ironwood's. And Lionheart's. And Roman's. And your mysterious _queen's_. I know secrets about you. Secrets about students attending the school this semester. I know things that are going to be happening soon. And I know things that are happening right now. _And_ , if push comes to shove, although I'd really prefer to avoid involving him, there's always my past self. I bet Atlas has some tech that can confirm we're the same people."

Ozpin stared at him with a calculating gaze. He set down his mug in favor of lacing his fingers. "Interesting, Mr. Arc. I admit, having a historian's grasp of events over the next few months, spanning over all of Remnant, would be quite…convincing"

Well.

Ozpin was at least willing to listen.

That was a start.

Jaune walked over to the side of the room, where a couple of chairs were lined up. He grabbed three, two in one hand and one in the other. He set down one in front of Ozpin's desk. He set the other two beside the desk, facing him.

He sat down.

"Truth be told Ozpin, Qrow, Glynda…" he looked at each as he addressed them. "I don't really care if you believe I'm from the future. Or if you believe that I have a semblance that makes me omniscient. Or if you believe I'm the owner of a super spy network and I'm aware of every ongoing scheme and plot in Remnant and that I'm somehow able to calculate how each one will turn out." Jaune shrugged. "You're free to believe whatever you want on that count. As long as you also firmly believe that I know what the hell I'm talking about. And follow my… _strongly worded_ recommendations to the letter."

Qrow more fell than sat in the chair provide for him. Glynda lowered herself with more grace.

"Why don't you begin by telling us a bit about Salem's most-current objective?" said Ozpin.

Jaune considered the recommendation. Sure, he _could_ begin there. But weren't you supposed to save the best for last?

Or, in this case, save the part your audience most wanted to know until the end—so they had to listen to everything else you wanted to say?

"Counter-proposal," said Jaune. "I'll tell you about myself. About my future. About who I am and what I've done. Then we'll get to Salem."

"Very well."

"Okay," Jaune exhaled. "First off, my name isn't John. It's Jaune."

"Are you claiming to be the same Jaune Arc whose transcripts arrived yesterday?" asked Glynda.

"My transcripts arrived yesterday?"

Huh, he remembered cutting it close all those years ago. But he didn't remember cutting it this close. For a moment he wondered if his presence might have caused the timing to change. But he discarded that notion when he considered how little time had passed since he met his younger self.

Young Jaune must have gotten the ball rolling on his enrollment quite a while before _John_ entered his life.

"You say you're from the future, but you're surprised by what your younger-self is doing?" asked Qrow.

"A little, yeah," replied Jaune. "I actually ran into younger me when I just arrived in this time. Our meeting was pretty…impactful. I wasn't sure how I might have changed things."

"Why would it change anything?" questioned Ozpin. "If you met yourself in the past, don't you have memories of the meeting, from when you were younger?"

Jaune shook his head. "Sorry. I'm going to explain a lot to you all. But we won't be discussing the details of time travel because I wouldn't even know where to begin. The only person in the world who could properly explain it—one of my partners—well…she's not here."

" _Partners_? You had more than one?" questioned Glynda.

"Yes. I started with one. The one you gave me." He motioned to Ozpin with his chin. "But when she died—and a lot of other people died too—I became part of a three-person team. WRJ." Jaune looked upwards, studying the ceiling. He hadn't realized how much these next few hours were going to take out of him until he thought about Weiss and Ruby.

"We were the greatest huntsman team to have ever lived. The strongest. The fastest. The smartest." Jaune pictured his two closest friends.

"We were also the last."

I*I*I

It took Ozpin several seconds to realize Jaune had stopped talking. To realize he wasn't just pausing for a breath before diving back in to his riveting tale.

"Is that…?"

Jaune nodded. "It's enough. I've got a decade of memories. This is a good enough start."

Ozpin glanced at his two companions. Glynda appeared dazed. Qrow was glaring at his own hands.

"I think we require some time to digest everything you've told us. And…contemplate answers to your requests. Perhaps Professor Peach can—"

Jaune cut him off with a raised hand. "I know my way around the school. I'll track down Blake and Pip, then wait for your response in the library."

Under normal circumstances, in his usual state of mind, there was no way Ozpin would have let some unknown huntsman wander around his school without supervision. As it was, Ozpin nodded mutely, watching Jaune disappear into the elevator.

Silence reigned supreme for nearly a minute.

Qrow was the first to break it.

"So, either we just talked to a man from the future. Or we just talked to the most brilliant liar to have ever lived."

Ozpin shook his head. "If the last…" He glanced at his scroll screen. "…four hours were a deception Qrow. Then they were a deception that goes beyond simple brilliance."

"It was like he knew us," said Glynda, quietly.

"Well, he did say you were his combat teacher. And he said you fought alongside him until the last battle. And you helped invent time travel too, apparently." Qrow ran a hand through his haphazard hair.

"Glynda," said Ozpin. "Your glyph writing abilities are second to none. How feasible is time travel via a single human's aura and dust manipulation?"

"It's possible, but only in the most theoretical sense. It's always been theoretically possible to time travel. The calculations necessary to make something like that real? The energy? The measurements? If you asked me at any point before today if it was possible, I'd probably abbreviate my answer to no. But after today…"

Ozpin's chin dipped in agreement.

"Okay, hold on. You know it's a chilly day in hell when _I'm_ the voice of reason. But are we really saying time travel is more likely than Jaune being a Salem flunky and one hell of a liar?"

It was a fair point.

Wasn't the simplest and most likely solution that Jaune was a spy? An extraordinarily effective one at that? Wasn't that what made the most sense?

"Normally, I'd agree with you Qrow. But…his stories from the future. The circumstances he described…I knew immediately what I would do in those situations. And then he told me what I did. And the two were perfectly aligned. It's not as simple as being a good liar or telling a good story. Salem and I have fought one another for centuries—and not even she could so perfectly encapsulate my thought-process and decision-making. And the secrets he knew…"

"You really think old Ironwood is working on some kind of super sex-bot?"

"Artificial intelligence," corrected Glynda.

"Potato, Tomato," replied Qrow. "I'm just saying it sounds a hell of a lot like that erectile dysfunction medicine line James was going to start. What was it? Ironwood's _Iron Wood_?

"That's a rumor _you_ started."

"Did I? Damn. I'm awesome."

Glynda rolled her eyes. "It's just the punchline of a joke you stole."

"Hey!" exclaimed Qrow. "That punchline needed an agent! I took it from small-time in some bar to the big-leagues—now every huntsman in the four kingdoms has heard it."

Glynda shook her head. " _Iron wood_. What man would even want both? It sounds painful and redundant."

Ozpin stole a quick glance at his second in command. Jaune's story must have really taken her off guard if she was willingly participating in Qrow's pointless banter.

"Glynda isn't wrong. _Iron wood_ sounds a little too sturdy and little too permanent."

Qrow laughed and snorted at the same time in the most undignified way.

"But if we can get back to the matter at hand. How shall we handle Jaune Arc? How actionable should we consider his information? How should we respond to his requests?"

"I think we need to decide whether we believe him. And if we do. We should listen to everything he says and follow his orders. And if we don't. We should tell him to screw off."

"That is…a _unique_ suggestion Qrow. You don't think keeping someone of his power and skill as an ally would be useful—even if we choose not to accept his claims?"

" _That,_ Ozpin…" He took a swig of his flask. "…is a heavy thought. I'm not paid to deal with heavy thoughts. I swing around a giant scythe for a living."

Qrow downplaying his intelligence was always irritating. But if he had something more to add than he would.

"And you, Glynda?"

Glynda sighed. She tapped her thumbs for a moment. "It's hard to believe much of what Jaune said. It's also hard not to believe it. When he told us Qrow's niece, the girl I lectured last night for going after criminals without authorization or back up—when he told us she's going to grow up to be one of the most powerful huntresses of all time I…" She retrained her attention her thumbs. "I believed it but I couldn't see it."

"So, what are you saying?" prompted Ozpin.

"I find myself in the rare position of agreeing with Qrow," said Glynda. "If we believe him then we can't afford to not follow his directions to the letter. If we don't, then we shouldn't have anything to do with him. Anyone who can confuse us like this—intentionally? They're dangerous."

Ozpin considered the words of his two most trusted assets.

He wasn't sure he agreed with the idea of pushing Jaune away if they didn't believe him, but their point was valid. If the man was lying, he was an incredibly dangerous enemy. The only difference between Ozpin and the two beside him was he preferred to keep his enemies close. Right where he could keep an eye on them.

Getting stabbed in the back wasn't a huge concern for an immortal.

But none of that mattered if they chose to believe Jaune—Qrow and Glynda had said as much. And Ozpin agreed.

If Jaune was telling the truth…

If he had a plan to take down Salem once and for all…

If he'd fought her. If he knew how powerful and unkillable she was…

If he knew all this and he still believed he could end her.

Maybe his and her never-ending journey could finally come to an end. Maybe, just maybe…Ozpin could finally rest.

"I find myself agreeing with you both. I also find myself believing Jaune's claims."

"Really?" questioned Qrow. "I figure out of all of us you'd be the hardest to convince. You never trust anything immediately."

"Well, for one thing, we aren't deciding whether we'll trust him indefinitely. Just for now. I'm sure our trust in him will either shrink or grow with time, depending on how his predictions pan out. And I'm also not certain I believe his claims to be from the future. But the way I see it, the only other possibility is…" Ozpin smiled at the irony. "He has a semblance that makes him practically omniscient—in which case his advice is no less valuable."

Glynda nodded—slowly at first but with increasing speed. "I agree."

"Really?" said Qrow, still trying to wrap his head around what they were accepting. "I mean sure, some of what he said made a lot of sense, filled in some of the holes in the big picture we've been studying. But are we going to believe him before actually confirming that he knows the future? Shouldn't we give him some tests or—"

Qrow cut himself off. "Oh my god. I've got it." He hastily withdrew his scroll.

Ozpin and Glynda shared a glance as Qrow dialed someone.

"Can't believe I didn't think of this earlier."

The huntsman hadn't drunk much during Jaune's story, so there was no way he was drunk enough to do something moronic like call a drinking buddy and reveal everything…

So, who was he calling?

"Uncle Qrow!" cried a cheerful voice from the scroll.

"What's up Rubes?" replied Qrow, smiling down at his niece.

"You tell me! You're the one who called."

"True. Just wanted to ask you someth—"

"Uncle Qrow! Did you hear!? I'm going to Beacon! I met the headmaster! And Ms. Goodwitch. She was scary but she was so cool! I can't wait to be a huntress too!"

Ruby's words blended into a difficult to comprehend string.

"I heard Rubes. That's amazing."

"Thanks!" said Ruby. "What did you want to ask me?"

"Oh, right. Almost forgot. Do you like boys or girls?"

Ozpin raised a brow at the question. It was…relevant. Surprisingly. Jaune had been quite clear about the relationship between Ruby Rose and Weiss Schnee.

"W-what!?" exclaimed Ruby.

"Well you're fifteen. I figure that's an age where you probably like one or the other…"

"B-but…w-why are you—why a-ask…"

"Qrow," began Glynda, leaving her seat and taking a step towards him, clearly not approving of the way he was tormenting the young girl.

"Hold on Rubes. Glynda's gonna help you figure it out."

"Glynda…? A-are there other people in the room Uncle Qrow!?" Ruby was practically screaming.

Qrow stood and turned the scroll around, so the screen and camera were facing Glynda.

Ruby's voice went from a yell to practically a whisper. "M-miss Goodwitch. W-why..." Ozpin maneuvered himself slightly to his left. So he could better see Ruby's face.

Then Qrow did something no one, not Ruby, not Ozpin, and certainly not Glynda, could have predicted. He reached forward, and with a practice flick of a finger, undid the top three buttons of Glynda's blouse.

Ozpin watched the cloth unfurl to reveal sizeable cleavage, milky skin, and a purple bra.

His eyes flicked towards Ruby. From the positioning of her eyes, it was obvious that she was staring at her phone screen intensely. Her jaw worked for a moment, trying to formulate words, as her face turned a darker and darker shade of crimson.

Glynda already had her crop in hand, no doubt ready to dole out a harsh punishment. But she put off breaking Qrow in favor of watching Ruby's reaction.

"Y-you," began Ruby. "Y-you have amaz—um you're beautiful but w-why. I…um…" Ruby ran out of words to meaninglessly mutter.

Qrow turned the scroll back towards him. "Whoa. Ruby. You turned into an actual Ruby."

"I hate you uncle Qrow," screamed Ruby.

"Why? Is it because I turned the camera back towards me? Because I can always point it at Glynda again. She hasn't buttoned yet."

"I-I-I…" Ruby tried to get some words out.

"I-I-I," imitated Qrow. "I-I'm a lesbian?"

Rather than attempt another response, Ruby made a tactical retreat, hanging up.

Qrow slid his scroll into his pocket. "Well, she didn't confess to being attracted to women. But I say if it walks like a lesbian and talks like a lesbian and it can't look away from its teacher's breasts as if they're the most delicious pair of cookies it's ever seen—it's probably a lesbian." Qrow hoisted his flask into the air with a smirk. "I'm convinced. Jaune's from the future so let's—"

Qrow was interrupted by a long grating squawk. It sounded like a mixture between a young girl's scream and nail being dragged across a chalk board.

Qrow looked up at the flask in his hand.

Ozpin did the same. The metal container was twisting and contorting, seemingly of its own accord. After a few more seconds of the ear-drum rupturing noise, the flask was twice as long as before and twisted several times over. It faintly resembled a giant corkscrew.

Liquor ran down Qrow's arm and into his sleeve.

Ozpin hid a small smile as Glynda only _now_ turned her attention to buttoning herself.

Qrow glared at the blonde.

Neither addressed Qrow undressing her in front of his niece or her destroying Qrow's most prized property. The two were as in-sync as always. Not the usual kind of in-sync possessed by those bound by similarities. Qrow and Glynda's type of synchronicity was more of a Yin and Yang. People running at the same pace, on the same stride, with the same form—in opposite directions.

Glynda continued to ignore Qrow's heated glare. She only bothered to reattach the bottom two buttons, then she turned to Ozpin. "So, will we be fulfilling Jaune's requests?"

"I likely would have, regardless of whether we decided to trust his words. A man like Jaune needs to be watched—even more so if he's looking to undo a future apocalypse."

"He probably wants to be here so he can watch you too," said Qrow, all hints of anger dissipating as he set his ruined flask on Ozpin's desk.

That was probably true.

Ozpin shrugged. "A mutually beneficial arrangement then." He switched tracks. "I know you don't particularly like when I make changes to the budget just before the school year begins Glynda but…" He trailed off.

"I'll consider these circumstances extenuating," said Glynda. "We'll find room."

"Good," said Ozpin. He took a sip from his—now—room-temperature coffee. "Time travel," he murmured, shaking his head.

It was strange to say.

Strange to even think.

Time travel.

He'd known it would happen eventually.

But what _really_ surprised him…

What really threw him for a loop…

Was that Jaune's time travel, as he described it, well…

It wasn't even the _kind_ of time travel Ozpin had expected.

I*I*I

"A-are you sure you don't want to sleep—even a little bit?"

"We can sleep when we're dead Trill," said Adam.

"Sure, but I'd like to do a lot more of the normal kind of sleeping before then," muttered the bat faunus.

"What did you say?" asked Adam.

Trill shook his head. "Nothing important."

Trill came to a stop. He motioned to the highrise in front of him. "This is probably where Roman is. I don't have his aura locked anymore. But he spent a lot of time in the penthouse. There's a service elevator in the back that he and Neo usually take."

"Come on," said Adam. Moving in the direction Trill pointed.

"Hold on—I'm not waiting here for you?"

Adam turned back toward him. "Why would you?"

Trill could feel his eye begging to twitch. "Because my mission will be nearly impossible if Roman and Neo see me with you. They'll know I've been spying on them."

"Your mission was to be my eyes and ears here. Well, I'm here now. So, no need for you to be my eyes and ears."

"What about when you go back?" asked Trill.

"I won't be going back until I've taken care of the… _situation_ here."

Trill pondered what the hell that could possibly mean. Was Blake the _situation_? Or was it Roman? Or was it Cinder? Or was it John? Or was it all of freakin' Vale? Also…who the hell was running the White Fang?

"So…who's in charge while you're gone?"

"Illia," replied Adam simply.

Trill's eye felt like twitching even more. "Didn't you send her back to Menagerie because she was kind of… _unstable_ after Blake left?"

"I hear her condition has improved."

"You _hear_ her condition has improved? You didn't talk to her?"

Adam shrugged. "It's going to take her some time to get here."

Trill's voice unintentionally rose a few decibels. "She's not back from Menagerie yet? Who's leading the White Fang right now?"

"They aren't children Trill. They can go unsupervised for a while."

Was Adam actually insane?

No, they couldn't.

"They'll probably slack off in their training while I'm gone. But Illia will whip them back into shape."

Would she actually?

"I told Illia that you had tracked Blake to Vale. That this was important. So, I know she'll do her best."

Trill glanced at the mid-day sun. He so badly wanted to sleep.

"You told Illia that we found Blake…?"

Adam nodded.

"And told her where she was…?"

Adam nodded again.

"And then you left _her_ in charge?"

Adam nodded one final time.

The two faunus stared at each other for a moment. Then Adam shrugged, turned, and resumed his walk towards the backside of the building.

Trill fought off a building moan.

Did he really have to explain to Adam that there was no way in hell Illia _wasn't_ coming here?

Trill followed Adam to the backside of the tower. He picked the locked door quickly.

They located the service elevator shortly after that.

Adam stepped inside.

Briefly, Trill considered just turning around and going back to his apartment, sleeping until the sun set.

But…

Shit.

This was his job.

 _And…_

Adam wasn't exactly in the best mood for further betrayals of his trust.

The second reason was several times more convincing than the first.

Trill followed his leader into the confined space. His face began to itch. Oum. He hated this mask. How did Adam do it? Wearing the thing _all_ the time?

"So," began Trill. "How are you going to convince him to set up a meeting between you and John?"

Adam shrugged.

Then he cracked his neck and flexed his fingers.

Trill didn't like what his body language was saying.

He tried again. "What are our talking points?"

Adam didn't reply.

"Adam, we are just going to talk…right?"

The bull faunus remained silent.

Trill glanced at the sword by Adam's side.

"I mean, obviously we should be ready for a fight. But we're not going to start one, right?"

Still no response.

"Adam, you know I'm useless in a fight, right?"

Adam finally spoke.

"Just stay out of my way."

Shit.

The elevator arrived on the top floor. A flashing scroll reader near the button panel indicated that the doors would not open without the proper authorization.

Trill tapped the door open button, without pushing it in—on the off-chance that the action might actually open the doors.

"Looks like you can't get in without a staff scroll. I'm sure there's some maid or someone wandering around on a lower level. We can just…"

Trill trailed off as Adam drew his blade.

"Adam, c'mon man. Let's at least go in with a plan?" Trill didn't like begging. But it wasn't beneath him. Not right now.

"A plan…" replied Adam.

"Yeah," said Trill. "A plan."

"Assert our dominance. Take what we want."

Assert our…?

Was that the plan?

Was. That. The. Goddamn. Plan?

Without warning, Adam slashed several times.

Trill's stomach bubbled in the most sickening way as he watched the elevator doors drop into several pieces, each with a loud clang. He looked past the destroyed door. He saw a skyline view, furniture, a massive T.V, a kitchen…

Shit.

The penthouse suite was an entire floor. And the elevator opened directly into it.

And staring at them, wearing a stylish apron, was Roman Torchwick, criminal mastermind. Seated at the counter across from him, on a barstool that made her seem even smaller, was Neo. The four exchanged looks for a few seconds.

"What the—" Roman began to speak.

But he stopped when there was a burst of action. Neo grabbed her undeployed umbrella off the counter while Adam dashed forward.

Trill watched in horror.

Well, he tried to watch.

Things were proceeding a little too quickly for his untrained mind to process them as they happened. He was stuck playing catch up.

Roman dove out of his kitchen as Adam brought down his first strike on Neo.

The girl pirouetted out of the blade's path with a dancer's grace.

Adam's sword clove through the marble countertop. Through the base of the counter. And through the barstool that Neo had previously occupied.

Neo countered quickly. She withdrew her blade from her umbrella and lunged towards Adam. She was as fast as him, if not faster.

Adam didn't bother moving. Nor did he bother dislodging his sword from the counter. Instead, he pulled his weapon into the counter, along the flat of the steel. This finished the initial cut, splitting the counter in two, ripping half from its foundation on the floor, and bringing the huge chunk of debris hurtling towards Neo.

Neo vanished with the sound of breaking glass before the head of the massive makeshift mace made contact. The counter kept going, long after Adam completed his blunt slash. It soared into, what looked to be, a one-hundred-inch television, obliterating the screen.

"My T.V.!" screeched Roman.

Trill almost felt bad for him. No way that television was cheap.

Trill watched Roman fumble around, looking for something. Probably his weapon. That cane. What did he call it?

…

No…

That couldn't be right. But why was it the only thing coming to mind?

Who would name their weapon _Homophobic Fudgesicle_?

But then again…the man did wear eyeliner, a bowler hat, and possessed a near stereotypical penchant for flamboyance…

Maybe his weapon's name was a cry for help?

Regardless, it was a cry that would likely go unanswered, considering what happened to the weapon.

 _Homophobic Fudgesicle—_ that couldn't be right, it just couldn't—was on the counter, near Neo's umbrella, when Adam decided to "assert his dominance."

Now it was in two separate pieces.

Trill watched Adam and Neo thoroughly tour the apartment in a whirlwind of violence.

Neo went in and got out like lightning. She couldn't afford to stop moving since Adam's blows had a _lot_ more weight behind them.

One slash separated the top half of a couch from its bottom. Another put a horizontal line through a support pillar.

Thank Oum the thing stayed standing, rather than bringing down the roof on top of them.

At one point, Adam returned his blade to its sheath. Neo had gone for a slashing strike from above. He had knocked her blade and her body back, hard.

He was making space for a powerful attack.

Trill already knew what that attack looked like.

He ducked low, just in case it was coming in his direction.

Fortunately, it wasn't.

Neo just barely dodged the razor-sharp wave of crimson energy. She only managed to avoid it by falling flat on her back. She craned her neck to watch the wave carve a line through a wall and a door, and continue onward, no doubt severing everything in its path as it went.

"My room!" screamed Roman.

When Neo turned back, it was to find a blade leveled at her face.

"Don't even try to teleport. Or weave an illusion. You have no idea how quickly I can shove this into your throat. If I see even a hint of you trying something—you die instantly."

Trill still hated that he was here. But at least Adam won.

How shitty would it have been if Adam dragged him here, picked a fight for no goddamn reason, and then got himself stabbed to death?

Trill turned to Roman. The man was glancing between his broken weapon and the masked faunus standing over his partner in crime. He looked as if he was attempting to figure out which one he should be angrier about.

Trill cleared his throat.

Roman and Neo noticed him for the first time.

Adam kept his attention focused on Neo.

"Ha…Sorry for disturbing your evening. We're just looking for someone and think maybe you can help us…?"

Roman stared at him incredulously.

"You're asking me for help?"

"Yes?" replied Trill.

"You come in here. Trash my shit. Trash all my shit. And _now_ you're asking me for help!"

Trill winced at Roman's gradual increase in volume.

"Y-yes?"

"Oum-Dammit!" Roman screamed.

Trill watched the man walk over to his ruined weapon and begin fiddling with the pieces, mumbling all the while. It wasn't at a volume that any human could hear from a distance, but Trill was just able to pick it up.

"What is this goddamn feeling of déjà vu? First John. Now the animals. Everyone wants a piece of Roman. Every-fucking-one."

Roman threw aside his weapon when he realized it was unfixable. He glanced in Neo and Adam's direction.

"Who the hell are you looking for?"

Adam answered before Trill could.

"Huntsman. Named John."

"You his friends?" Roman's eyes narrowed.

"Well—" began Trill.

Adam cut him off, once again, not looking away from Neo. "That's none of your business. Will you arrange a meeting with him now? Or after I separate this woman's head from her body?"

Roman glared at Adam.

Trill thought his glare would soften when he looked at Neo. But it only got harder.

Odd.

"Fine, fine." He fished his scroll from pockets underneath his apron. "Who the hell are you guys anyway?"

Trill made sure he fielded this one. " _I'm_ just a nameless face in the White Fang. But _he_ …" He pointed towards the other faunus. "…is Adam Taurus."

Roman froze, scroll in hand. "You're Adam Taurus?"

Adam didn't take his eyes off of Neo, not even for a split second, nor did he respond.

Roman directed his questioning look to Trill. "He's Adam Taurus, as in the guy working with Cinder?"

Trill nodded.

"As in the guy who gave me the men to steal the dust?"

Trill nodded again.

Roman grew more agitated with each question.

"As in the guy who's supposed to be on the same team as me!?"

"One and the same," said Trill.

"Why the hell are you _animals_ attacking me then!"

"You must really want your pet here to die," said Adam, finally. "If you're calling us that while I have a sword at her throat."

"I'd feel worse if she wasn't enjoying every minute of it," retorted Roman.

Trill glanced at the diminutive woman beneath Adam. There was no way that was true. Was there?

He paid attention to her expression.

He didn't know her well enough to interpret the look on her face with much accuracy. But he was pretty sure that she didn't look particularly… distressed. She looked kind of…blissful?

Trill decided not to think about it any harder.

"Back to the matter at hand," continued Roman. "Should I take this attack as a declaration of war against Cinder? I don't think she'd be happy about that."

"You don't think she'd be happy I cleaned up a couple of loose ends, colluding with a huntsman to destroy her?"

Roman's carefree demeanor didn't slip. "Ha. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Trill over there…"

Adam just had to say his name, didn't he?

Ugh.

"…bugged Junior's club."

Trill flinched back from Roman's ice-cold glare.

"He paid special attention to the rooms in the back."

Trill wanted to announce that he had done no such thing. But it wasn't as if Roman would believe him. Now he was just another loose end.

"T-that said," stuttered Trill. "We're n-not here to clean up loose ends. We're here to make contact with John, implicating ourselves just as much as you, right? So…no harm no foul?"

Roman's icy glare didn't slip. "Sure, no harm, no foul. Just come over here and lay down real quick, so my boot can show you how little harm and foul I've experienced."

"Stop wasting time Torchwick," cut in Adam.

Roman growled. "Alright, I'm messaging him."

"Call him."

"Um…he prefers when I text."

Trill couldn't help but note the small slip in Roman's speech. Here he was weaponless. His muscle had a sword at her throat. And Adam was clearly in a murderous mood.

Yet his first display of fear was at the notion of displeasing John.

"Did I stutter human?"

Roman groaned and made the call.

The scroll dialed for a few seconds.

 _"Hello?"_

"Hi, John?"

 _"Roman. You're calling me. Unscheduled. Why?"_

"Well…ha. Funny story, that. There's someone who wants to meet you."

 _"Who?"_

"Hold on, let me reverse the camera."

There was a stretch of silence as Roman fiddled with the application. Eventually, he gave up trying to use the rear-facing camera, and instead just turned the device around.,

John's voice burst out of the scroll. _"Oh my god! It's the devil!"_

"What?" Adam growled, walking away from Neo without warning.

Trill kept an eye on Neo since Adam had seemingly forgotten about her. She made no move to attack when the bull faunus turned his back. Instead she admired the couch he had cleanly sliced.

He gave his attention back to Adam when the faunus snatched the scroll from Roman's hand.

 _"Oh, you're not the devil. My bad. The sun was behind you and it kind of cloaked you in shadow. All I could make out were your horns."_

"You're John?"

 _"That's me."_

"My name is Adam Taurus. I am a lieutenant of the White Fang. And I demand a meeting—with you and Blake Belladonna."

 _"Blake!"_ called John, sounding as if he was further away from his scroll. _"Sounds like the horny faunus called for you!"_

A moment later Blake's voice joined John's.

 _"Horny faunus? Are you taking about Adam!? He called you?"_

A moment after that, Adam whispered in a voice that only Trill could possibly detect, "Blake." She must have been on the screen now.

And then Blake, the source of Adam Taurus's obsession, the girl haunting his every waking moment, the reason Trill's life had nosedived over the last day, went off on Adam like dynamite.

 _"Adam! What the hell are you doing!? Why are the White Fang robbing dust shops!? At least targeting the Schnee made sense! But working with Roman Torchwick—submitting to some psycho fire-bitch? What the hell are you doing to the Fang!?"_

"You lef—" Adam began rage lacing his voice.

Blake cut him off. Somehow, she sounded angrier. _"Ooh! I am so freakin' angry at you! Where do you want to get your ass kicked!?"_

Adam was clearly derailed. "Where do I want to get my…what?"

 _"On second thought, you don't get to pick the spot. I will."_

There were a few seconds of silence.

John's voice returned through the scroll.

 _"You don't know any good spots to meet him, do you?"_

 _"Whatever!"_ shouted Blake, away from the mic. She returned her attention to Adam soon after. _"Arrange it with John! I'll be there!"_

"Your anger," Adam rasped. "Is entirely unwarranted. You betrayed us. You betrayed your k—"

Blake interrupted him again. She was screaming now. _"I left Adam! I fucking left! I didn't betray you. I didn't betray the White Fang. I didn't betray faunus everywhere. I left because the Fang changed. I left because **you** changed, you asshole! Don't you dare act like I don't care about the plight of the faunus! I care more than you ever have! You never cared about helping faunus! You never cared about the greater good! You never cared about me! If you did, you'd stop trying to drag me into your psychotic revenge schemes. Which, by the way, this one, is going to ruin the life of innocent humans **and** faunus! How the hell can even **faunus** lives not matter to you anymore?"_

The room was silent when Blake's tirade ended. Trill wasn't breathing. Neo wasn't moving. Roman wasn't talking.

Adam just stared at the scroll in his hands.

He stared and stared.

"Blake—" he began.

She interrupted one last time. Her voice was slightly calmer now. _"Save it for our meeting Adam. I hope, for your sake, you're ready to kill me. Because when I see you…I don't know what I'll try to do."_

There was the sound of a clatter, like her dropping the scroll on a table or on the ground. A second later there was the rustling noise as someone picked it back up.

 _"Wow, I didn't see that coming. I mean, she was just over their joking around with…and then she just…"_ John imitated an explosion noise. Then imitated several more following it. _"Well, okay then. Blake wants to meet. Have your people call mine. Buh-bye."_

The call ended long before Adam was capable of replying.

He just stood there, in slack-jawed silence, as the supporting beam he had cut in his skirmish with Neo groaned and shuddered in sympathy.

 **Slightly different note than the last chapter.**

 **So, there you have it: ten chapters! We're halfway there! "There" being the halfway point of the story.**

 **So, we're halfway to the halfway point. Woot!**

 **I'm joking.**

 **We're actually _almost at_ the halfway to the halfway point. **

**Smash that like button.**

 **Beta'd by Mystery Beta.**

 **Dooon't stop, Belieeeeeevin',**

 **Vronsurd**


	11. Ignorance Ignites Irony

**Hey all,**

 **So an FFFF of mine (Fetching Fan Fiction Friend)**

 **Wrote this beautiful piece for me:**

 **Sumer has come and passed, the Shield of vale will come at last**

 **Wake me up, when the hiatus ends...**

 **Like my boredom's come to pass**

 **Seven months aint gone so fast**

 **Wake me up, when your hiatus ends...**

 **I'm a sucker for poetry so I had to belt out the longest chapter of this fic yet.**

 **So, I watched season 6.**

 **VEEEERRRRYYYY Light spoilers ahead (not in the story. In the Authors note.)**

 **As those who consistently read these meandering notes know, I'm not the biggest fan of where the show's gone since season 3, I've made no secret of this fact in my past ANs.**

 **All that said, I thought season 6 was vastly superior to 4 and 5.**

 **The storytelling was tighter…**

 **And the Salem Ozpin backstory was well displayed and orchestrated.**

 **I'm still a little lost by two narrative decisions: the main cast's reaction to Ozpin's backstory, and the handling of Adam Taurus (although that's more of a multi-season issue).**

 **But compared to volume 4, where I disagreed with just about every choice the writers' made, i.e. the short time skip, the ignoring of Ruby's eyes, Blake running away _again_ —undoing the progress of her past arc—and then redoing the same thing, Yang's PTSD _light_ - _edition_ , moving the story away from the sandbox of Beacon, splitting up the cast of what was—up until that point—an ensemble story…**

 **Yeah, I could keep going, but the point is, I did not like season 4.**

 **This season was _far_ better. **

**The Ozpin thing just confused me because I felt hella bad for the man, and thought his backstory provided pretty good explanation for a lot for his actions, deception, and general lack of faith in humanity.**

 **But the rest of the cast was a _lottttt_ less empathetic towards him. Which…I mean…I can see Qrow not being super understanding. But Ruby? Jaune?**

 **I don't know…**

 **Then Adam, I just felt like my man got done wrong. I was one of the people who watched the Black trailer way back when and had my whole head-cannon for the man long before they introduced him to the story, so I know I'm biased…**

 **But I mean…they could have given him a redemptive arc OR made him a truly terrifying foe that had to be put down OR made him the kind of enemy that you know is evil and you can't stand his actions, but you agree with his motives and the war against him becomes less ethical and more ideological…**

 **Those all would have been great ways to handle him.**

 **RT decided to turn him into this sort of trashy abusive obsessive pathetic ex-boyfriend.**

 **Admittedly, I'm probably biased, Adam looked like a BAMF in the trailer. So, I assumed he would be. I set myself up for disappointment when his small-minded, petty, abusive nature was revealed.**

 **But does anyone else think Adam would've been a much more interesting character if he legitimately cared about his cause, and was willing to do anything for the Faunus, and he was more than willing to put down Yang—but would never hurt Blake because despite being twisted and rageful he's ideologically pure? If he was a twisted anti-hero that eventually either saw the error of his ways or had to be put down because he was too dangerous for the world at large?**

 **Or—at the very least, he held genuine affection for Blake?**

 **I mean Adam didn't go down enacting some grand scheme to destroy humanity. Nor did he go down trying to win back Blake—but hating humanity. Nor did he go down in an act of sacrifice…**

 **He went down being a creepy stalker.**

 **In the end, his whole purpose in the narrative of volume 5 and 6 was to be an obstacle for Yang and Blake to overcome. Kind of like Pyrrha became little more than motivation for Jaune to become a better huntsman.**

 **He could have been… sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

 **much more.**

 **Whether it was just making him a real challenge for the main characters…**

 **Or making him a cool relatable character.**

 **Oh yeah, that's the other thing that derailed future seasons for me.**

 **I think Jaune should have died to Cinder instead of Pyrrha.**

 ***Ducks shoe.**

 **Hey, think about it! It's narratively sound! Everyone says killing Pyrrha showed that there was no plot armor.**

 **I disagree. Pyrrha was, essentially, the best-friend of the second-best-friend of the main character. (Assuming Ruby is the main character.)**

 **You want to show that there's no plot armor? Kill someone who looked like he/she would be essential to the plot and was close to the primary protagonist.**

 **Killing Jaune…that would've really blown peoples' mind. I would've had Cinder shoot that arrow, Jaune takes it for Pyrrha, dies, and then Ruby unleashes the silver-eye laser. Ruby would've fallen into depression. Yang would have pulled herself out of her own rut out of a desire to help her sister who's practically despondent...**

 **I know a lot of people like what happened in those seasons. Which is totally fine. And maybe I'm wrong.**

 **I know I'm always disappointed in anime storylines when they don't give me that perfect blend of Beserk, One Piece, and Gintama I love, so maybe that's a "me" problem.**

 **Anyway, enjoy the chapter.**

 **No real grammar editing or anything so forgive my mistakes**

 **Pa tr e on . com (forward slash) vronsurd**

 **Chapter 11**

 **Ignorance Ignites Irony**

 _Ten minutes had passed since Jaune heard her approach. He hadn't turned to greet her. He hadn't said a word._

 _Neither had she._

 _From the sound of it, she hadn't even moved. She just stood behind him. A few feet back._

 _The silence wasn't daunting or awkward. It never was—not between them. They'd been together too long. They'd seen too much._

 _How long had he been out here?_

 _Four? Maybe five hours?_

 _Too long._

 _Not because he didn't want to be here. Hell, if he could, he'd spend every minute of every day in front of this damn monument._

 _But there was work to be done._

 _A monster to kill._

 _A race to save._

 _He could only spend so much time mourning. So much time regretting. If he dwelled too long, if he grew too somber…_

 _Well, eventually it was like he was spitting on the memory of the very individuals for which he was grieving._

 _Still._

 _He studied the names of his precious people on the granite slab—for just a minute more._

 _Pyrrha Nikos._

 _Lie Ren._

 _Nora Valkyrie._

 _Blake Belladonna._

 _Yang Xiao-Long._

 _There were others engraved in the polished stone. Many others. Some he did not know. Some of which he had only heard. Some who he met in passing. Some who he would call an acquaintance. And some who he would even call friend._

 _But these five were acid._

 _These five pierced the shell he'd constructed since Beacon fell._

 _These five melted his insides into unrecognizable paste._

 _These five were his greatest failures._

 _After a deep breath, Jaune reached for the plate that he had set before the great rock. He shooed away the fly that landed on the stack of pancakes drenched in syrup._

 _"I have never had the chance to tell you this," began the woman behind him, no doubt recognizing that he was ready to talk. "But I think the pancakes are an excellent tradition. The oddness suits Nora's eccentric disposition."_

 _Jaune turned toward Weiss with a small smile. "Yeah, well. Nora once told me that flowers are nice and all—but do they taste good in syrup? So, I figured a bouquet wasn't quite right." He swatted away another fly. "I could do without all the bugs though."_

 _"Yes," replied Weiss. Two small glyphs sprung to life to her immediate left, a bug trapped between them. It was flattened an instant later. "The sheer quantity of bugs that that satanically sweet syrup attracts is most distressing—almost as distressing as how much Ruby adores that diabetic delight."_

 _Jaune chuckled as he withdrew a fork from his pocket. Weiss's war against sugary condiments began the day she caught Ruby dipping a cookie into a mug of syrup. From that day forward the fight was on._

 _Weiss's sapphire eyes latched onto his fork with a burning intensity. "Surely, you don't still intend to eat them…do you?" Her voice dripped with unveiled disgust._

 _Jaune smile transformed into a bit of a smirk._

 _He cocked an eyebrow._

 _Weiss huffed._

 _She didn't need words to understand what he was saying._

 _With Grimm incursions on farmland and farming villages getting worse and worse no one could afford be picky when it came to food. Getting the necessary ingredients to make these pancakes had cost him an arm and a leg. And a lesser huntsman would have been risking their very life to retrieve the sap to make the syrup._

 _Plus, how could he claim to do this in remembrance of his together but not together **together** teammates if he didn't eat every morsel? Nora didn't do leftovers. Why would he?_

 _Weiss knew all this._

 _And on a mission, she'd have eaten those pancakes in a heartbeat—bugs and lukewarm temperature and lack of skilled preparation and everything._

 _After all, she knew just as well as Jaune that food was just fuel._

 _He knew all this, but it was still funny to see Weiss occasionally slip into the prissy princess she used to be. It was also funny how he could give her so much grief with a single condescending eyebrow and a few exaggerated chomps._

 _Weiss blew past her embarrassment._

 _"We have a mission."_

 _"All three of us?" asked Jaune._

 _Weiss nodded._

 _"Must be a pretty big deal." He stabbed a generous amount of pancake and offered it to her._

 _Weiss rolled her eyes but accepted the offering, biting the sticky mess off his fork. "Not as big a deal as you would think. We were stretched thin covering the evacuations in the northern villages. That was the reason we were solo the last couple of weeks. Ozpin had to make use of the huntsman who can functionally replace a whole team to complete assignments that would usually require more manpower. Obviously, he would prefer for us be together, watching each other's backs. After all, who is going to kill Salem if not us?"_

 _"How about the wizard?" replied Jaune, rolling his eyes._

 _"The wizard," replied Weiss. "Has been failing to kill Salem for god-knows-how-long."_

 _"Because she can't be killed," said Jaune._

 _Weiss shrugged. "Can't," she spoke the contraction with something akin to disgust. "Is such an imprisoning word."_

 _"Ozpin said that her body reforms—no matter the injury. He said that there was nothing we could do to stop her. To end her. That it's all about survival from here on out. That a draw is a pipedream. That winning is an actual impossibility."_

 _"Need I remind you what you said in response?"_

 _Jaune studied the grass at his feet._

 _"Let me see if I recall," continued Weiss. "If her body can't be destroyed, then we'll build a prison that she can't escape. If nothing can hold her then we'll build walls that can't be penetrated. If nothing can stop her and nothing can hold her and nothing can destroy her body then we'll get strong enough to annihilate her soul."_

 _Jaune winced as he listened to his own words. Sure, they had sounded great back then. They had been inspiring at the time. But from a levelheaded perspective in the present, they certainly lacked a lot of the how did they not? Ozpin had probably been thinking the same thing back when Jaune made those ridiculous claims._

 _"Surely, you have not forgotten the plan?" prompted Weiss._

 _Jaune chuckled at the question. "No, I haven't forgotten the plan. Just realized that annihilating a soul might have a bit more to it than getting jacked at the gym. Unless you've figured something out?"_

 _"Actually," said Weiss, a hint of smugness in her expression. "I have."_

 _Jaune's eyes widened. "Are you serious?" His eyes narrowed. "Or is this a leadup to another one of those if-only-Salem-would-drop-a-toaster-into-the-bathtub-jokes?"_

 _Weiss rolled her eyes so hard the motion was almost audible._

 _Probably because she had never once found Jaune and Ruby's on-again off-again line of joking funny—or at least she had given no signs of finding it funny. Her participation had always been limited to muttering about how childish her teammates were._

 _"No. I am not jesting. Aura is a manifestation of soul and—as you know—Glynda, Oobleck, and I have been spending a considerable amount of our time studying aura and the relationship between our spiritual and physical manifestations. The research has mostly been for the sake of pushing semblances beyond what we perceived to be their original capacity, spurred in large part by the evolution of your own semblance. But methods for unlocking new stages in semblance development are not the only fruits of our labors…"_

 _She trailed off._

 _"And…?" asked Jaune._

 _"And…" replied Weiss, turning and heading back towards the memorial's entrance. "…I think Salem will be in serious trouble the next time we face her."_

 _Jaune jogged to catch up with the Schnee._

 _"How?"_

 _"How, what?"_

 _"How are we going to delete Salem from existence?"_

 _"That is for me to know and you to find out when Oobleck and I write up a more rigorous theorem."_

 _"Oh, come on!" exclaimed Jaune. "You can't imply you know how to kill the unkillable queen and then not give me a hint!"_

 _Weiss hummed but did not reply. Apparently, she was very willing to imply she knew how to kill the unkillable queen and then not give him a hint._

 _Why were the short so vengeful? Was it because they'd been dealt a—snrk—shorthand at birth?_

 _Jaune stepped in front of the heiress, turned towards her, and began walking backwards. Then he tried his best to imitate Ruby's begging face._

 _The fact that his eyes weren't an adorable shade of silver, he had a bit of a beard coming in, he had a puckered pink scar stretched across his face, and he towered a foot-and-a-half over Weiss's petite frame did him no favors._

 _Weiss's expression was a stone wall until an idea lit up her eyes. "Alright. I'll give you a hint about how we're going to kill Salem—if you tell me something."_

 _"Deal," said Jaune, mentally cataloging what knowledge he had that Weiss didn't—and what of that knowledge would be valuable enough to exchange for the secret to ending the greatest threat on earth._

 _He got stuck on the first part of the task._

 _"Why didn't you show up for your date with Bice?"_

 _Jaune blanched. This was…_

 _This was not a question he wanted to answer._

 _He knew how much hard work Weiss and Ruby had poured into setting him up with a girl that they claimed was just perfect for him. And, after all their insistence, he had agreed to go on a date._

 _Just one. Just enough to get him out there._

 _And he'd had every intention to go!_

 _Really!_

 _But, somehow, on his way to the restaurant where he was supposed to meet this mysterious perfect woman, he'd been waylaid._

 _Copious amounts of alcohol had attacked him like bandits. He wound up singing at the moon in front of the monument while Qrow laughed like a madman._

 _It was the sort of thing Weiss really wouldn't understand._

 _Not even a little bit._

 _"I ran into Qrow."_

 _"And you decided an evening getting drunk with that miserable miscreant was worth more than an evening with a beautiful woman?"_

 _"Hey! Qrow is good company!"_

 _"I suppose what they say about misery is true."_

 _Jaune groaned. "Was she upset?"_

 _Weiss shrugged. "How would I know?"_

 _"Aren't you and Ruby friends with her?"_

 _Weiss shook her head. "Not particularly. I and Ruby had seen her in passing and thought the two of you would get on well. And as to whether she was upset—I am certain a woman of her caliber was more than capable of finding someone else to entertain her for the night."_

 _Jaune wasn't sure where to start with that statement. First there was Weiss admitting that the girl she and Ruby had been talking up so much was some random stranger they knew next to nothing about. Then there was Weiss referring to the woman's caliber, implying that she herself was attracted to her. And then there was that last bit._

 _He decided to start with the last bit._

 _"Weiss…" he began, as the two approached the park exit._

 _"Yes?" Weiss responded._

 _"What is Bice's main appeal?"_

 _"Whatever do you mean?"_

 _"Is she the type of woman looking to… settle down?"_

 _"Jaune!" Weiss's voice was full of mock offense. "Are you asking me if Bice is a slut?"_

 _Jaune nodded._

 _That was exactly what he was asking._

 _"After all the vetting Ruby and I performed on your behalf," continued Weiss. "To think that you…"_

 _Jaune's eyes narrowed._

 _"…would get caught up on such a minor detail."_

 _There it was._

 _"Her height was perfect for you. She had the softest looking hair. And…her tail…"_

 _Weiss released a noise that wasn't a squeal._

 _Because Schnee didn't squeal._

 _Not one of them had ever released such an undignified sound._

 _So, it wasn't a squeal._

 _But whatever it was. It sounded a lot like a squeal._

 _"Her tail is platinum Jaune! And bushy! Snow white! And she has black hair down to her lower back! Can you picture the contrast?"_

 _Jaune averted his eyes from Weiss's. Something about the intensity in her gaze when she was talking about what she found adorable was disconcerting. The sapphire flames that flickered in her irises were both hilarious and terrifying. They reminded him of his closest sister._

 _Ellie._

 _Was she still…?_

 _No._

 _He couldn't afford to let his mind wander toward his family. Only pain lay down that broken path. Ansel was still standing. They were fine. He would reconnect with his family—if they would let him—when the fight was over, when he'd secured humanity's future. And if he died before accomplishing that goal? Well then, that was a terrifying conversation avoided._

 _Besides, Weiss's eyes might be reminiscent of Ellie's. But the source of that fire was a fetish Ellie wouldn't poke with a ten-foot stick._

 _At least, Jaune hoped she wouldn't poke it with a ten-foot stick. If one of his sisters was a pervert than it was Crystal. She was flagrantly sexual and raunchy._

 _Although Weiss was proof that perversion could come in stoic packages._

 _And Ellie was stoic as hell._

 _Dammit._

 _What the hell was he even pondering?_

 _"Ever think you might have overcorrected on the whole faunus thing?" asked Jaune with a teasing, albeit nervous tone._

 _"Never," said Weiss._

 _Her voice was resolute._

 _"Should Ruby be worried?" asked Jaune. Mostly joking. Mostly._

 _"Are you implying that Ruby should be concerned because I would cheat on her with a beautiful faunus? Or that she should be concerned because I am working tirelessly to figure out a way to give her silver puppy ears and a tail? Because only one of those two will eventually occur."_

 _Jaune opened and closed his mouth a few times. Finally he settled on, "I'm not going to even touch that one."_

 _The corner of Weiss's mouth inched upward. "Returning to the topic at hand, Ruby and I were not attempting to drop you into a relationship. We are both aware that you are not ready for that. We just wanted you to have some fun. Be happy, if only for a moment."_

 _Jaune sighed. "I know I've been dour for a while. I apologize for being such bad company. It's not fair to y—"_

 _"You being sadder than you used to be is not the problem Jaune. We are all sadder than we used to be. You make fine company when we are together. And when we are on missions you seem fine as well. Ruby and I worry about you when you are alone. When you are not with us. When you are without a mission. When the only thing that seems to hold your attention is that slab over there." She motioned back towards the park they were walking away from. "Neither of us think you are miserable to be around Jaune. We are more concerned over how miserable you seem to be when you are without company. Isolating yourself out here only exacerbates the problem."_

 _"Well," began Jaune, not sure what to say. Spending his free time at the monument felt…well, it felt right. It felt like the least he could do for the comrades he had failed, for the friends he had lost. But if he said something like that Weiss and, by proxy, Ruby, would only grow more worried for him. Their concern was appreciated—but he hated watching the two squander what little time they had to indulge in their own happiness on trying to cure his brokenness._

 _"Maybe I'll spend less time in front of the monument once we've killed Salem once and for all. I think you owe me a hint?"_

 _"I would argue that running into Qrow does not really delve into your actual reason for blowing off your date—but since we do not have time for a full psycho-analysis…"_

 _"Plus, you're not a damn psychiatrist," muttered Jaune._

 _Weiss continued as if he had not spoken. "…I shall give you your hint."_

 _Weiss proceeded to monologue about the complex relationship between energy, matter, and spirit. Jaune understood none of it. And she did not bother to explain how any of the research would aid in striking down Salem._

 _All and all, it was a robust yet useless hint._

 _He should have expected as much._

 _It was such a Weiss thing to do._

 _As they made their way to the Vale headquarters of the United Alliance of Kingdoms, Jaune listening to Weiss ramble about a theoretical technique to imbue attacks with pseudo-deity properties—whatever that meant—they came across a group of soldiers._

 _Two of them were well trained. Jaune could tell from their posture. Atlas, for sure. The other three were likely Vale militia—an organization that was working its ass off to catch up to their Atlesian counterparts._

 _They were all drunk. Not terribly so. Alcohol was expensive these days. And soldiers weren't paid the same as high class huntsmen._

 _But they were drunk enough to look a little loose. A little happy._

 _The sole female in the group was clearly telling some grand story. The others were responding with various "oh's", "ah's" and from one of the guys, "bullshit's." The group went silent when they noticed Jaune and Weiss._

 _Relations between soldiers and huntsmen were…_

 _Strange._

 _To say the least._

 _Huntsmen weren't a part of the militia, but were commanded by those who commanded the militia, and their word was typically accepted as that of a high-ranking officer—and sometimes they were made high ranking officers—but only temporarily._

 _It was a bit of a mess._

 _Which was why neither Jaune nor the gathered troops knew how to react to one another._

 _On the one hand, Jaune held no military rank._

 _On the other hand, Jaune was an acting general in the last major Grimm incursion._

 _Thus, the confusion._

 _Jaune believed he wasn't owed any sort of respect from anyone. He was just a huntsman. Not some overhyped savoir or worshipped hero. He was a man with a job who killed Grimm. And yeah, he saved as many lives along the way as he could. But that was basically the job description wasn't it?_

 _Sure, when he'd first ran away from home he was looking to be viewed as a hero. To be sung about and remembered. That was then and this was now. Now, he just wanted to save the people he cared about, kill Grimm, and end the war. He didn't need a plaque, or a title, or even a hint of respect._

 _Soldiers, however—especially those who had served directly under him—often disagreed. They thought his presence absolutely demanded respect. But even then, they didn't know **how** to display that respect. He wasn't their commanding officer, not anymore, and even when he was, he wasn't much for salutes or titles._

 _The laughter, shoving, and playfulness of the group bled away as they recognized the huntsman and huntress passing by them._

 _Jaune wasn't sure how to respond to their wide eyes and nudges._

 _So, he waved._

 _The motion was awkward when they were so close and maintaining prolonged eye contact. He should have gone with a spoken greeting._

 _Weiss's nod was, of course, the perfect amount of acknowledgement and distance._

 _As they passed the group Jaune managed to hear a word muttered twice between them._

 _"Skydas."_

 _Skydas._

 _He'd heard that word the other day too. Muttered in a similar way. Skydas. What did it mean?_

 _He'd meant to look it up or ask someone the last time he'd heard it. But he had shortly forgotten. Fortunately, this time, he was walking right next to team WRJ's walking dictionary._

 _"Weiss," he began._

 _"Yes?"_

 _"I've heard people say this word a few times now, and I'm not sure what it means. Skydas?"_

 _Weiss stopped midstride. "Skydas?" she repeated, her eyes large. "You have heard people saying Skydas…? But you do not know what it means?"_

 _"No," said Jaune. "Should I?"_

 _"Well," replied Weiss. "It is Old Valesian, so, I guess it is fine that you do not. But you **should** be aware that people are not just saying the word. They are calling you it. They are calling you Skydas."_

 _"People…are calling me that?"_

 _"Not just **that** , they're calling you Dangaus Skydas."_

 _Jaune didn't recognize either of those words. But before he could ask for an explanation a "Why!?" burst out of him._

 _Weiss resumed walking, motioning for Jaune to keep moving as well. "Did you really not notice when it started? I believe it was right after your last mission."_

 _"My last mission…?" said Jaune._

 _Weiss nodded. "You, Ruby, and I have not had the chance to debrief one another on our last assignments. Did anything out of the ordinary happen on yours?"_

 _Jaune thought back to his last mission._

 _He was helping a village evacuate while investigating reports of a large subterrestrial Grimm. Things came to a head as the villagers were fleeing, when the massive tentacled creature revealed itself, ridiculously long appendages reaching for the fleeing people._

 _Jaune had never seen a Grimm quite like it. The fight was made arduous by the creature's regenerative abilities. Every tentacle he cut off grew back in short order. Then there was the Grimm's mouth—a gaping hole twice the height of Jaune's considerable frame, laced with row after row after row of razor-sharp teeth. The massive mouth was how the creature burrowed, copious amounts of dirt would disappear into its massive maw, only to be expelled from an orifice on the opposite end._

 _The fight had raged on for nearly twenty minutes—when Jaune caught the monster attempting to burrow, its beady eyes fixed on the villagers behind him. Most dumb Grimm would just keep fighting the huntsman in front of them. Elder Grimm, however, tended to be a bit more tactical. The monster no longer wished to waste time fruitlessly fighting one human—when it could be slaughtering dozens._

 _It was at that moment Jaune accepted what he would have to do. The surest way to defeat the creature before it managed to outmaneuver and massacre the retreating civvies._

 _He faked a stumble. He faked a stagger. And while being deafened by the Grimm's roar of triumph, Jaune Arc vanished into the beast's ringed mouth, avoiding the shredding teeth as best he could._

 _He spent the next minute cutting his way out of the monster, and not the shortest route either—all the way through its brain._

 _When he emerged from the dissipating Grimm, he was surprised to see how close it had gotten to the fleeing villagers. The nearest was a mother clutching her daughter to her chest. Her expression was twisted by shock and, perhaps, happiness._

 _She had been on the verge of being consumed, after all._

 _Shortly after that, a team of huntsman arrived to help with the village's evacuation, and Jaune departed to make sure there weren't more of those insane burrowing Grimm._

 _He returned a few days later thinking little of the assignment—well, that wasn't quite true. He was still pretty upset that there were Grimm that burrowed and possessed tentacles. Why the hell did a tunneling Grimm also possess the absolute worst aspects of underwater Grimm?_

 _It just wasn't fair._

 _"Not really," Jaune answered. "Basic evacuation stuff. Guess I also ran into a new Grimm breed. So, that's something."_

 _"Hm…" Weiss observed him contemplatively._

 _Jaune met her probing eyes honestly._

 _"Well, whatever you did, you must have left quite the impression on someone—or, more likely, several individuals."_

 _"What makes you say that?" asked Jaune._

 _"They are calling you Dangaus Skydas Jaune," answered Weiss. "It means Heaven's Shield."_

I*I*I

"This is insane," complained Qrow, running a greased cloth over his scythe's blade.

Glynda ignored her irritating companion, instead focusing on Jaune and Blake's distant forms. The faunus-human duo was approaching the high-rise. That meant it was time for less talking and more paying attention.

"I mean, don't you think this is insane?"

Of course, expecting as much from Qrow was no more than a fantasy.

It had been a while since she had done something like this, posted up on a roof, waiting for something—anything really—to happen.

Stakeouts were a more common occurrence back when she first joined Ozpin's gang of… heroes. Back when she was just a huntress who had piqued the immortal's interest. Back when she didn't spend every waking hour running Beacon and acting as a sounding board for Ozpin's ridiculous notions.

Sometimes, it was as if the man was incapable of remembering that he was in modern times. That he couldn't just do whatever the hell he wanted. That there were laws and regulations and systems and—

Stop.

As if Qrow distracting her from her mission wasn't bad enough, now Ozpin was doing the same.

And the man wasn't even present.

"I mean, some random guy, that none of us have ever met, shows up out of nowhere, claims he's from the future—and now we're on a roof backing him up, while he does who knows what?"

Glynda resolutely ignored the drunk, instead adjusting the focus on her binoculars as Jaune and Blake entered the expensive apartment complex.

"Plus—"

Glynda could not prevent herself from interrupting when Qrow threatened to continue moaning. "You know just as well as I that Jaune did not ask us here as _back up_."

"Oh, did I mishear him or something?" There was a hint of elation in Qrow's tone. He was clearly happy to have baited her into speaking.

Glynda considered returning to silence. While the notion was tempting, she knew it would only result in Qrow restarting his relentless attempts to draw her into conversation. No, it was best to let him get it out of his system. Then, maybe, he'd be quiet.

A woman could dream.

"You know this is a token gesture."

"Sure, sure. Clearly Jaune doesn't need the backup. We're just here because he told Ozpin he'd keep him in the loop. But, you know, that wasn't the part of this whole shebang I was talking about when I said _this is insane_."

"Oh?" replied Glynda.

"Yeah, I was a little more focused on the part where Jaune said he's from the future—and we started acting as if we believe—"

Qrow was interrupted by the squawk of a radio.

 _"Testing, testing. This thing working?"_

Glynda picked up her scroll, texting Jaune a terse "yes."

 _"Ah great. Looks like the elevator is out of order so we're taking the stairs. Might take us a while."_

Glynda glanced at the apartment's top floor, more than thirty stories above the bottom. Yes, that would take a while. And while Qrow would be quiet when the meeting began and there was something of interest for them to listen to—he was a professional, after all—there was no way Branwen would remain silent for however long it took them to reach the thirty-eighth floor.

So, with some reluctance, she tuned out the background noise of whatever Jaune and Blake were discussing and turned back to her companion.

"Acting?" Glynda questioned.

Qrow gave her a look that could only be described as incredulous. "Well...yeah. You don't actually believe him? Not one-hundred percent? I mean, I admit, I've never been _closer_ to believing someone's from the future. _I_ certainly didn't know Rubes preferred spaghetti over meatballs. And I don't think Tai knew either…"

For a moment, Glynda was tempted to consider just what that metaphor meant—what was the spaghetti? And what was the meat ba—but then her reason returned, and she realized the cost in dead braincells for overanalyzing Qrow Branwen's nonsense was far too high.

"I'd hardly call knowledge of your niece's sexual preferences the most compelling of his evidence."

" _I_ was pretty shocked by it," replied Qrow.

Glynda sighed. "Maybe if you spent a little less time draining your flask…"

"You know I'm worse without it."

An unfortunate truth.

"So," continued Qrow. "If you didn't find my maybe-lesbian niece to be absolute proof of time-travel—what did it for you?"

Glynda considered the question. On the one hand, calling anything John had presented the other day absolute proof was a stretch. Sure, it was all very impressive evidence. But _absolute_ proof?

"I'm not _certain_ John is from the future. But I do think it's possible. And I think that because of Ozpin."

"Ozpin?", repeated Qrow.

"Ozpin's been alive for centuries Qrow. He has seen things we cannot imagine. He knows things we cannot comprehend. He has…magic. True magic."

"And?" replied Qrow.

" _And_ ," Glynda drawled. "While he displayed a healthy measure of doubt concerning Jaune's claims—he didn't seem all that dubious about the _idea_ of time travel."

Qrow blinked.

He blinked again.

"Didn't he ask you if it was possible?"

"Yes," admitted Glynda. "But I don't think he was asking if time travel itself was possible—even if I interpreted the question as such at the time. I think he was asking if I believe time travel to be possible _with_ advanced dust and glyph manipulation. I don't think he was asking about largescale manipulation of time in the abstract. I think he already believes that is possible. What he wanted to know was if a glyph master could move from time dilation—a relatively simple cast—to ripping a hole in the continuum."

"So," drawled Qrow. "You're saying you believe him because Ozpin didn't immediately toss the idea of time travel out on its ass?"

"I'm _saying_ " replied Glynda, "that I believe in the possibility of his claims because Ozpin displayed a remarkable openness to the idea of them. After accepting that possibility—his stories of the future. Of us. Those become rather…compelling."

"I guess," replied Qrow. "It's just…the more I think about it, the more absurd this all seems. I mean, the guy came out of nowhere. He knows about Salem. He's making crazy claims left and right. He knows all about us. He knows all about my nieces. He claims Lionheart is a traitor. He's clearly strong as hell…" Qrow stashed his cloth and inspected his handiwork. "Have we ever encountered someone more suspicious than this guy?"

Glynda exhaled roughly. Qrow made some good points. They weren't new thoughts. The same notions had been racing around her and—no doubt—Ozpin's head from the moment their meeting with Jaune concluded.

Yet here they were. Posted on a rooftop. On Jaune's recommendation. Watching a meeting between their supposed time traveler, a soon-to-be student of Beacon, a leader in a terrorist organization, and the most goddam annoying criminal to ever haunt Vale's seedy underworld.

"If it's any comfort," began Glynda. "Regardless of whether he is from the future; I believe we are handling Jaune's presence in a fairly reasonable manner. This isn't far off from how we would deal with any other powerful unknown huntsman."

Qrow nodded, conceding her point.

Unknown huntsmen and huntresses were neither common nor unheard of. Most huntsmen hopefuls went through one of the four academies—or at the very least, possessed the necessary documentation for accepting missions and getting paid.

This documentation allowed each of the four kingdoms to have a general overview of the huntsmen inside and outside their domain.

But huntsmen also liked to take apprentices.

And apprentices rarely required paperwork.

This meant that, occasionally, fully trained huntsmen and huntresses would appear, having never attended an academy and having never accepted a formal mission. The source of their experience was usually tagging along on their masters' missions, many of which may have far outclassed the sorts of assignments even fourth year Beacon students received.

These sorts of cases were always handled with extreme care. After all, an unstable or malicious huntsman posed an immense danger to everyone around him. So, it wouldn't do to trust him without evidence of his intentions and character.

But, on the other hand, Grimm were plentiful and skilled huntsman were hard to come by. Pushing a skilled huntress away because it was _difficult_ to be certain of her intentions could result in a shortage of manpower when it came time to fight. Between a rogue huntsman and a Grimm incursion the latter was far more likely to result in a mass loss of human life—unless the rogue huntsman was an absolute psychopath…

The usual solution to the unknown-huntsman-quandary was that the huntsman was placed under observation for a predetermined period, during which he was interviewed and kept in proximity to other huntsmen—under the guise of a request. Since he was not a prisoner—after all, huntsmen weren't particularly receptive to being held captive, even if only for a temporary period—he was allowed to go about his business however he chose. He was simply asked to inform assignment offices of his intentions and to accept that, for a time, he may be watched and followed.

It was all very boring and time consuming for all parties involved.

In her younger days, Glynda had wasted a full seven weeks babysitting a new huntsman. It had been a mind-numbing change of pace. And the man had turned out to be clean. He performed his job adequately if not a bit sloppily until, two years after he'd been accepted by Vale, he was killed fighting a pack Beowolves.

All of that to say, Glynda had some experience with the process.

Of course, Jaune being aware of Salem changed things.

It had to.

They couldn't treat the man like he was some run-of-the-mill huntsman when he knew secrets of which only ten, maybe twelve, people in the world were aware.

But did it warrant immediately incarcerating him?

Did it warrant fighting the man to a standstill in Ozpin's office?

Would the combined efforts of her, Qrow, and Ozpin have been enough to take him if they did choose to go on the offensive?

That was the problem when dealing with unknown huntsman.

When there were semblances out there that allowed instant retreat, like teleportation…

Or overwhelming offense, such as a human bomb...

It was always better safe than sorry. If you were going to pick a fight, best to do it once you knew who and what you were picking a fight with.

Glynda still had no idea what Jaune's semblance was. And if Jaune's stories of the future had even a hint of truth, he was potentially too much for even her, Qrow, and Ozpin to take on—with or without potent semblances.

It was unlikely. How could anything short of a fully realized Maiden defeat the combined prowess of her small group of conspirators? But then, Jaune claimed to have slain not one, but two fully realized Maidens in his time.

It was a…unique claim. To say the least.

To summarize, waiting, watching, and not antagonizing.

That was their play.

It worked for them. And Jaune had no problem with it—hell, he welcomed their observation.

All and all, they had taken the best possible course of action.

"I guess you're right," began Qrow. "We wouldn't be doing _much_ different if he hadn't told us he's _fought_ Salem and traveled from the future. We'd be keeping an eye on him. Although, I'm not sure we'd be fine with this meeting. I guess it makes sense to assume he's telling the truth for now. I mean, if he is lying, why would he give us such an easy way to disprove everything he's claimed? He told us his younger self is coming to Beacon this year—quick blood test and we'll know if he was lying."

Glynda hummed her agreement.

After a few seconds of silence Qrow laughed.

Glynda didn't bother asking what he was laughing about.

He explained regardless. "Can't wait to see how Jimmy responds when Jaune tells him he's from the future."

"I imagine James won't be particularly receptive."

"Maybe," agreed Qrow. Then he snickered. "But you know, Jaune did talk a lot about _eliminating_ this threat and _neutralizing_ that danger. You know how hot and bothered that sort of talk makes Old Jimbo."

"It always comes back to James' sexuality with you, doesn't it Qrow? Is there something you'd like to share?"

Qrow snorted. "I'd feel bad if there is some poor guy or gal carrying a flame for the Steel Dick. The only partner James is interested, is one with adjustable sights, recoil compensation, and a fire rate of eight shots a second."

"Wouldn't you have said the exact same about your niece a few days ago?"

Qrow whistled as he thought about that.

Glynda made an interesting point.

A _really_ interesting point.

I*I*I

 _One Day Previous_

It was a full-time job, trying to tone down Clint's telling of "John Slays the Bitch Bandits."

The kid refused to just summarize events with, "yeah, John saved us."

He _needed_ to detail the blood and gore and hopelessness of their circumstances. All so he could play up Jaune as some larger-than-life unstoppable badass.

It had started when Vul said she was feeling tired and left the cafeteria in favor of the room Beacon had provided the two recovering Mistralians.

Clint had been tight-lipped about how he and Jaune had met up until that point, despite Blake's curious nudging.

Jaune was grateful for his discretion.

It was soon obvious, however, that Clint's unwillingness to discuss Raven's camp was not born out of a desire to avoid brining up unnecessary baggage. But, rather, to avoid upsetting Vul.

The moment the female faunus left, Clint's voice deepened, boomed, and echoed as he broke into an ear-drum-shattering rendition of the ballad of "Chrom Gets Cremated."

Jaune tried to convey _be quiet_ to Clint with his eyes.

The gesture was not effective.

If Jaune had to guess, Clint thought he was being shy or embarrassed—and that the kid was doing him a favor by singing his praises.

None of which, of course, could be further from the truth.

Jaune was not _embarrassed_ about what happened at Raven's camp. Embarrassment was hardly the appropriate sentiment for what he had done, for the blood he had shed.

What he felt when he thought back to that camp was more in line with…

Rage.

Rage was more accurate.

Pure. Blinding. Consuming. Rage.

When he pictured the smug little grin Raven had given him back at her camp, he wanted nothing more than to acquaint her face with his boot.

So no, Jaune didn't want Clint to quit hyperbolizing events because he didn't like being portrayed as the "bee's knees" as Ruby would have put it.

Rather, it was because he had a sneaking suspicion as to why Clint was talking about the traumatizing circumstances of his captivity with such reckless abandon.

Clint had been catatonic on the trip back to Beacon. His wide bloodshot eyes had been unblinking and his stare unwavering until sleep granted him mercy. He wasn't talking. He wasn't moving. He certainly wasn't telling an embellished version of what happened to his team with such a dramatic flair.

Now, Clint was gabbing about the bandit camp like he was a first year discussing his first kill on an Ursa Major.

The attitude flip was one with which Jaune—unfortunately—was intimately familiar.

It was a sort of dissociation that he had achieved after Ren and Nora's deaths. It allowed him to function socially, to talk, even to laugh. Meanwhile he wasn't bothered by grief or nightmares or loneliness. All that mattered was the mask and the mission.

The mask being a smile, a joke, and some casual banter.

The mission being vengeance, cold, hard, and raw.

No wonder Glynda was worried about the kid. Clint was only capable of talking about what happened, of playing up Jaune's accomplishments and bravery, because memories of the past, tears, grief, trauma—none of it was inside him.

He'd flushed his system of all those human sensations.

All that was left was pure hatred for Raven and Lionheart, a seething ball of dark matter with the pleasant side-effect of an overpowering sense of purpose and a unique kind of clarity.

It wasn't a healthy place to be. It was better to experience grief, process, and move on.

Jaune wanted to help him. But it wasn't an endeavor to undertake lightly. Ruby and Weiss were already his close friends when they dragged him out of his revenge coma—and they had to work tirelessly for weeks on end to do it.

Jaune didn't know Clint nearly as well, nor did he have the option of spending every minute of the next four weeks trying to draw the kid out.

So, for the moment he could offer Clint little help in dealing with the emotions he was discarding.

That still didn't stop him from attempting to shut Clint up about the bandits.

Why?

Because there were two others at the table.

He feared the details might… _unsettle_ Blake.

And—more importantly— _horrify_ Pip.

Jaune had managed to blow right past most of Blake's inherent skittishness by injecting himself into her life in the most obnoxious way possible—he didn't need all that effort going to waste.

And Pip…

Well, she was important too…

A place to stay at Beacon had always been part of the plan.

A Beacon salary and a room for his new assistant were last minute additions.

He couldn't afford to let Clint scare off the only reason he had requested either of those amenities.

The problem was his reluctance to just tell Clint to shut it.

At least the kid was talking. He could just have easily cut out all human interaction, locked himself in a training area, and lost himself in plans for a violent future.

Jaune's thoughts drifted to Vul as Clint's story ramped up.

The girl, despite clearly suffering from severe PTSD, was in slightly better shape than Clint. Not functionally, she would likely choose to end her huntress career—but she was at least _on_ the long road to normalcy.

She had seemed ready to curl up somewhere safe and warm, get drunk, and get teary—for who knows how long, perhaps years.

Clint, on the other hand, looked ready to curl iron, get ripped, and get even.

Both were ways to deal with severe pain.

Both could lead nowhere.

One was just a little healthier. A little more human.

Though of course, the other had purpose.

That was the main benefit of Clint's coping mechanism over Vul's.

Purpose.

No matter how sad he got... No matter how badly it hurt... Or how much he missed his friends…

Clint had a reason to live. To keep moving.

To fight.

That was another reason Jaune needed to consider how he would help Clint carefully. Bringing him back to land of the living was great and all. But it could do more harm than good if the kid's sense of purpose didn't come back with him.

He would need to be careful and conscientious in his handling of the boy's mental state.

Damn.

He just kept heaping more and more onto his own plate, didn't he? Was his workload never enough?

Jaune tuned back into Clint's dramatic retelling.

"—and then… _they_ came out. Not one. Not two. Not three or four or five."

Clint paused, letting the silence hang for just a moment longer than necessary.

"There were fifty of them."

"Fifty!?" choked Blake.

"Fifty," confirmed Clint.

"And Chrom too?" asked Pip.

Clint nodded. "Though I guess properly counting Chrom it was more like sixty guys."

"Was he that big?" questioned Pip.

"Bigger," replied Clint, without a shred of hesitation. "He was like if one guy ate twenty other guys."

"Wouldn't that be seventy guys then?" questioned Blake.

"Numbers are for the weak," replied Clint, resuming his narration.

Pip listened to the tale with wide eyes, glancing at Jaune occasionally with some indecipherable emotion. He wouldn't be surprised if it was fear—but he couldn't be sure.

Jaune was distracted from his lame attempts at damage control by the sound of heels clacking across the cafeteria floor.

Jaune looked up and, quickly meeting Glynda's eyes, excused himself from the table. When he reached his fellow blonde, she motioned for him to follow her out the room.

"So," began Jaune, once they were—hopefully—outside the three faunus' hearing range. They had stopped by a large window, overlooking the school's pristine courtyard. "You guys figure out what to do with me yet?"

Glynda nodded. "Ozpin has agreed to your request. You will be given a staff position here. A sort floating advisor with very few formal responsibilities."

"I don't need much," said Jaune. He thought quickly. "Just enough to make sure my assistant is comfortable." Sure, he hadn't asked his assistant if she would be his assistant, but he figured Beacon professors made good money, if he was willing to give her practically all of it—what reason would she have to say no?

Aside from the fact that he had practically kidnapped her and dragged her around with little to no consent and forced himself into her life and home with a casual disregard for her privacy.

Yeah.

Aside from all _that_ , why wouldn't she want to work with him?

It was impulsive, he knew that. An assistant wasn't part of the plan. But honestly, him being by himself wasn't part of the plan either.

Ruby _and_ Weiss should have been here with him.

Mostly Ruby, probably.

Still.

He wasn't supposed to be alone.

But when Pip had started describing the various ways she might assist him in his day-to-day life—as well as further huntsman responsibilities…

Well, could he be blamed for getting a little excited?

He wasn't going to find other huntresses of Weiss and Ruby's caliber. His workload was doubled there no matter what.

But if he could enlist someone with some of the same organizational and logistics and general living-life and paying bills and doing paperwork skills that Weiss had…?

"I can live just about anywhere, doing anything," continued Jaune. "But I have certain expectations about Pip's living conditions."

The more he convinced Glynda to sweeten the deal, the more likely he could lure Pip into partnering with him. Sure, he didn't particularly like having a partner on the battlefield these days—too much risk of losing him or her again, just like Pyrrha. But Pip could partner with him from behind a desk—a desk located a safe distance from wherever the action was located. _That_ was palatable. Besides—

Jaune's fast paced thoughts hit a speed bump shaped suspiciously like a brick wall when Glynda spoke up.

"Will the two of you share a room or require separate?"

Why would he and Pip share a room?

Unless…

"Are you short on rooms?"

A flash of confusion passed through Glynda's eyes. "No."

"Oh?" Now Jaune felt confused.

Glynda must have picked up on his confusion. "I apologize, normally I am quite confident in my ability to intuit relationships but honestly I couldn't tell if you and she were involved."

"Oh," said Jaune. He chuckled. Then his brain caught up.

There was the slightest rush of blood to his cheeks, nothing incriminating—not like it would have been when he was a teen or if he was across from his family at the dinner table. Pip huh? Weiss would like her. She had cute ears after all. If Ruby were here she would, no doubt, tell him to "go for it!"

His smile turned wistful.

His Ruby wasn't here.

His Weiss would never "like" someone for him ever again.

He thought of his hands. Covered in so much blood. He thought about one of his few reasons for existing: to cover them in so much more.

He thought about how he already wanted to indirectly involve Pip in that bloody process. How, for the sake of all his dead friends and family, he was willing to dirty her hands by proxy.

"She deserves better."

Glynda's eyes narrowed at the response.

"So, separate rooms then."

"Yes."

Glynda nodded. "One more logistical question."

Jaune motioned for her to continue.

"We were hoping you would address what your companions know of you and of Salem."

Jaune carefully considered his answer. This was important. Ozpin, Glynda, and Qrow needed to know that his name was John around everyone but themselves.

But he also did not feel particularly inclined to tell them _when_ he had arrived in this time. He'd avoided it in his original explanation of his origins, and he planned to continue doing so now. It suited him just fine for them to think he had been around, in their time for years.

Neither Ozpin nor Glynda nor Qrow needed to know that he'd only met Pip a day ago and was only now plotting to make her his assistant. Or that Blake couldn't possibly be his long-time apprentice since he had arrived little more than a week earlier.

Knowing those details would only reduce their faith in his judgement.

He needed to hurry up and build as much of that faith as he could. He didn't need setbacks.

He would have to make sure Blake and Pip stuck to their backstories—longtime apprentice and longtime assistant—but if they were willing, this could all work out surprisingly well for him.

"They know the same things. Neither have heard of Salem and both know me as John. They're both heavily involved in the White Fang stuff."

"So, they have the same information you gave us concerning the White Fang movements in the city?"

"More, probably. Since Blake is ex-White Fang and Pip is…" Should he admit to Pip being a White Fang member as well? Normally he wouldn't think twice of it since Ozpin really didn't give a crap. If a person was willing to dedicate themselves to the fight against Salem he'd acknowledge their repentance, hand them a pardon, and ship their ass to the front lines. Glynda and Qrow were a little more cautious. And Pip wasn't really "ex" White Fang.

She'd just been forcibly removed from the hideout one time.

Probably best to play this one close to his chest.

"Pip is just better at keeping track of that kind of stuff."

Glynda didn't seem remotely surprised about Blake's former affiliations. Which made sense. The first time around neither Glynda nor Ozpin had much to say to or about Blake when she ran off to single-handedly take down the White Fang.

Apparently, it wasn't outside of their expectations for the girl.

"So, it would be for the best if we referred to you as John."

Jaune nodded. "Especially since younger me will be here soon. Might get confusing if we don't keep our names separate."

"Do you have a last name prepared?"

Jaune paused.

Last name.

He needed a last name.

If only Weiss had thought to create an alias for him. Alas, the original plan didn't much care what he went by. His role was supposed to be dealing with the criminal underbelly. Ruby was supposed to interface with Ozpin and company. He wasn't supposed to be juggling so much—not originally. Of course, who was he to hope things would proceed according to his plans—for even a second.

He had made up his first name under pressure from his father.

He had come up with _John_.

Needless to say, he was not hopeful for the next burst of patented Jaune Arc creativity.

"I'll have to think about that. I'll let you know shortly. Is that everything?"

Glynda nodded. "Yes, now I have to make some…adjustments to the budget."

The woman did not look particularly enthused.

Jaune watched her walk away. She was as attractive as he remembered. It was strange how much closer he was to her age these days.

Sure, she was still older.

But not by much.

Jaune turned back in the direction of the cafeteria.

What went well with John?

Tho…

Se…

Sh…

Shaun?

John Shaun?

Ugh.

He was the worst.

Jaune soon arrived back in the cafeteria.

Blake, Pip, and Clint were still at their table. But now Blake was talking while the other two listened and commented. Was it racist to wonder if he was welcome to approach, if they might be discussing some important faunus only matter?

Then Pip laughed and Clint choked. Whatever Blake had shared—it was pretty damn funny.

Jaune's new-ish scroll vibrated in his pocket. He reached for it, wondering if he might meet one of Neo's…

Somehow the word "friends" didn't seem quite right.

It was Roman.

Jaune answered the call with a swipe of his fingers.

"Hello?"

 _"Hi John?"_

"Roman," Jaune acknowledged. "You're calling me. Unscheduled. Why?"

 _"Well…ha. Funny story, that. There's someone who wants to meet you."_

Had Roman betrayed him?

Or, perhaps, had Cinder caught on to his presence by some other way? So soon?

"Who?"

 _"Hold on, let me reverse the camera."_

Jaune waited for the master thief to switch to his rear facing camera. He waited. And waited. And waited some more. Eventually the screen whirled.

Jaune breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the very un-Cinder like outline of the new interloper. There was a window behind the faunus, so he was almost a silhouette. But there was no question that this was Adam. His lanky form and horns gave him away.

"Oh my god! It's the devil!"

Jaune had to keep himself from laughing as Adam growled, _"what!?"_ and stomped toward the camera.

Jaune continued once he had a clear view of Adam. "Oh, you're not the devil. My bad. The sun was behind you and it kind of cloaked you in shadow. All I could make out were your horns."

 _"You're John?"_

"That's me."

 _"My name is Adam Taurus. I am a lieutenant of the White Fang. And I demand a meeting—with you and Blake Belladonna."_

A meeting with him and Blake, huh? It was unexpected. And it went against the plan's entire concept of small, manageable changes that allow for mass manipulation of outcomes…

Contacting Roman early on, rather than letting him do his thing and killing him at a very specific moment in the future was already a risk that Weiss hadn't been certain they should take.

Now he was considering contacting another major player in an even more reckless manner.

Meeting with Adam wasn't part of the plan.

But leverage on Roman and Adam? Cinder's two most important lackies at this point in the timeline?

It could make things easier. Much easier.

And the plan needed to get more…flexy the moment he arrived here in the past by himself.

"Blake!" he called out, looking away from his scroll momentarily. "Sounds like the horny faunus called for you!"

Blake stared at him blankly for a few seconds. Then her eyes widened. A second later she was beside Jaune. "Horny faunus? Are you talking about Adam!? He called you?"

The moment she had visual confirmation that he was, indeed, talking about Adam, she practically snatched the device out of his hands.

There was no hello. No pause. Blake went in swinging with an angry shout.

"Adam! What the hell are you doing!? Why are the White Fang robbing dust shops!? At least targeting the Schnee made sense! But working with Roman Torchwick—submitting to some psycho fire-bitch? What the hell are you doing to the Fang!?"

Adam started to say…something. But Blake's righteous fury was just getting started. "Ooh! I am so freakin' angry at you! Where do you want to get your ass kicked!?"

 _"Where do I want to get my…what?"_

"On second thought," continued Blake. "You don't get to pick the spot. I will."

Jaune watched Blake stare at the scroll in contemplative silence for a few seconds. "You don't know any good spots to meet him, do you?"

She glared at him. "Whatever!" She turned back to the scroll. "Arrange it with John! I'll be there!"

Blake offered the scroll to back to Jaune—what was he, _her_ assistant?—and started to turn away.

Then Adam's voice came through. _"Your anger is entirely unwarranted. You betray us. You betrayed your k—"_

Blake snatched the scroll back with unusual speed for a for a first year. ""I left Adam! I fucking left! I didn't betray you. I didn't betray the White Fang. I didn't betray faunus everywhere. I left because the Fang changed. I left because you changed, you asshole! Don't you dare act like I don't care about the plight of the faunus! I care more than you ever have! You never cared about helping faunus! You never cared about the greater good! You never cared about me! If you did, you'd stop trying to drag me into your psychotic revenge which is going to ruin the life of innocent people—human and faunus—everywhere!"

Blake was breathing heavily by the end of her rant, chest heaving and eyes wide.

The scroll remained quiet for a few seconds. Then it remained quite for a few more seconds. Then a few more.

 _"Blake—"_

She cut him off. "Save it for our meeting Adam. I hope you're ready to kill me. Because when I see you…I don't know what I'll do."

Blake offered the Scroll back to Jaune but released it before he had the device in hand. She apologized as it clattered to the ground.

Jaune picked it up as he watched Blake walk—or, more accurately, stomp—out of the cafeteria. "Wow, I didn't see that coming." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "I mean, she was just over their joking around with…and then she just…" He pursed his lips and made an explosive noise. Adam, mask firmly in place, said nothing. He did nothing. He made several more explosions. When he still hadn't received a response from Adam, he said, "well, okay then. Blake wants to meet. Have your people call mine. Buh-bye."

Jaune ended the call.

Interesting.

This was…

Interesting.

It was an opportunity to influence the White Fang. A chance to earn some trust from Ozpin and company—by inviting them along for the ride. And perhaps he could help Blake nip her White Fang oriented martyr complex in the bud.

This could be good. This could be great.

He glanced back at the table with Pip and Clint. Clint's eyes were unfocused, locked onto some invisible thing in the distance. Pip was looking at him. Or she was, until he made eye contact with her, then she flicked her eyes away.

Right, Pip.

He had already asked Glynda—maybe it was time to ask the faunus herself if she would be his assistant.

But how? Come straight out and say it? Or was this the kind of thing you wooed someone into?

How the hell had Ozpin convinced Glynda to pick up the slack of his madness?

Jaune scratched the fair bit of stubble that was gathering on his cheeks.

How would he go about this?

I*I*I

"You sure about this?" asked John.

Blake nodded.

She was sure.

In fact, she'd never been surer about anything in her entire life.

She and Adam had gone through a lot. And they had gone through it together.

Together.

Always together.

Their relationship had been easy at first. Because they were alike. In so many ways.

She was angry. He was angrier.

And their fury was derived from the same place. The same source.

The never-ending cycle of injustice to which the Faunus were subjected.

Every time a beating went ignored by the police... Every time a store was razed… Every time a faunus found themselves cold and hungry, living on the streets, because no one would give them a job and the shelters wouldn't take them in…

Her blood had boiled.

Her blood had boiled violently.

So had his.

But his blood…

Well…

It had always boiled hotter than hers.

It boiled _differently_ too.

Sure, he wanted the injustice to end, just like her.

Sure, he wanted those causing all the suffering to pay, just like her.

And he loved helping their oppressed people, just like her.

They should have been two peas in a pod, kittens in a litter.

But there was a difference between them. A stark one.

A difference that Blake had taken far too long to recognize.

Adam hated the world.

The. Whole. Entire. World.

He was smart, so he could wrap up his immense hatred in reasonable treatises and philosophical jargon. But that didn't change the fact that his heart had become a seething black ball of carnivorous ink.

It had started gradually, as if he was trying to ease Blake into his way of thinking.

First there was no difference between Schnee Company management and the Schnee family... Then there was no difference between Atlas officials and government workers… Then there was no difference between soldiers and emergency responders…

She could still recall his voice. His words. Laced with pain, anger, but…also, reason.

 _"Look Blake. I know you wish this could all go down peacefully somehow. So do I. But we must face the facts. We won a war Blake. We **won.** They came to us, asking for peace. And we gave it to them. And what have they given us in return? Ridicule, spite, violence, hatred, abuse… The kingdoms weren't this strong back during the war Blake. We could've annihilated the humans had we chosen to. Maybe not all the kingdoms—but at least one—probably Atlas, given where our troops were stationed when we agreed to peace. Every man, woman, and child in that god-forsaken kingdom lives because of the mercy **we** showed. All of them. So, is it just the Schnee CEO and the Atlas council who should be blamed for the Faunus mistreatment? Are we not owed a debt by every single one of them? A debt that they, and by 'they' I mean each individual citizen, have reneged upon time and time again? I understand your desire for a peaceful solution Blake. I really do. But we aren't the ones who broke faith and brought us to this moment. **They** did that. All we can do at this point is…make them pay for it. Make them pay **dearly**."_

Before long, he was convincing her that the people who bought Schnee Company products were just as guilty as Jacques himself—and that the citizens of Atlas were just as deserving of punishment as the corrupt politicians constantly pushing anti-faunus sentiment.

At that point, he wasn't actively pushing an agenda of attacking human civilians.

Not yet.

He was just…explaining why civilian casualties weren't a… _huge_ concern.

That had been enough for Blake. He had already gone too far.

She didn't want to imagine what reality his next passionate argument would attempt to convince her of.

Were children going to be the next great threat to the faunus?

She could hear it now, _"Children are just murdering, raping, thieving adults in hiding Blake… If they're human, they're a threat."_

She gritted her teeth.

The thought sent a pulse of anger through her so strong that she had to remind herself several times that the statement had been conjured from some dark depths of her imagination.

Adam hadn't actually said it.

Yet.

There was no doubt that he had gotten sicker since she left him on that train.

His current plans were proof enough of that. Working with some crazy _human_ terrorist who was looking to take down Beacon? A school that trained human and faunus alike? Trained them to protect the entire kingdom from Grimm and other insidious threats?

That was several steps beyond not caring about human casualties.

That was an active attempt to kill as many people as possible. To cause as much chaos and anarchy as he could.

He didn't even care if his fellow faunus got caught up in his lust for revenge.

Was there even a word for how far gone her former-friend was?

Broken.

That seemed appropriate.

"I have to do this John. I have to…I have to face him."

John released a non-comital hum.

"Why?"

"Why?" repeated Blake.

"Sure. You're _ex_ -White-Fang, right? You must have left for a reason. Probably because you didn't want anything to do with the organization anymore, correct? Because if you wanted to change the movement—you'd have never left. You would have just…fought against the leadership."

Blake considered John's words.

He had a point.

She had left the White Fang because she couldn't tolerate what they were becoming—what they were trying to turn her into.

At least…that's what she told herself.

Part of her knew, from the moment she cut the link between those two train-cars, that she was running because she was scared.

Not liking what the White Fang was becoming? Hating what they were trying to make her do? Those weren't reasons to run. Those were reasons to stand—the same way she had stood against Faunus oppressors a thousand times before.

No, it wasn't her conscience that had led her to abandon the White Fang.

Her conscience urged her to fix problems. To fight injustice.

It always had.

No.

Her reason for abandoning the White Fang was fear.

Pure and simple.

She feared what the group had become. She feared that she would be unable to change anything.

She feared…

She feared Adam.

Goddammit.

She was scared of him. She was terrified.

And she hated it. She hated how she could simultaneously experience a raging sun of anger in her stomach—and yet it was tempered with a lead ball of terror.

Despite her furious threat when they spoke a day earlier, some small part of her quaked at the thought that Adam would see _her_ the same way he saw the Schnees—one more obstacle in his journey to find a good vantage point to watch the world he set on fire burn.

She was a traitor after all. He'd said as much on their call.

What was stopping him from cutting her down like he had done to so many others?

Blake was afraid to fight him.

She wasn't afraid because he was stronger than her. Although he was. No, Blake was fine with the idea of taking on stronger, deadlier opponents.

The reason she was afraid to fight Adam was…

Well…

Because despite seeing his actions and beliefs as heinous and irredeemable…

Despite hating what he was becoming. What he was doing. What he _was_.

She couldn't bring herself to hate _him_. They had been through too much, stood together too often. If he hated her now…if he decided he would personally end her life—could she hope to respond in kind?

A few days ago, her honest answer would have been simple.

No.

She couldn't face up to Adam's hate and rage—not if it turned against her. She had nothing as potent and overwhelming inside of her. She was certain he'd rip her apart as she begged him to remember her friendship.

After all, what was a friend in comparison to his passion for humanity's destruction?

That was why she chose to run in the first place, why she'd given up trying to convince him that there was a better way…

But all this was before.

Before she had realized that Adam wasn't even paying attention to faunus welfare anymore. An attack on Vale? Unleashing Grimm into the streets?

Learning of Adam's new breed of madness set off a supernova inside her.

She was angry.

Really angry.

Pissed to the upper-limits of her temper.

The fury drowned out the fear. Drowned out her regrets. Drowned out whatever lingering affection still existed for one of her oldest friends.

Blake followed John to the stairwell after glaring at the "Out of Order" sign taped to the elevator. Her voice, though low, echoed as they traveled upward.

"Adam's already crossed a lot of lines I don't agree with. But this one…this one is too much for me to ignore and wait for someone else to handle."

"I hear you," said John.

Blake continued. "He's going after Beacon! _Beacon!_ He's not dumb John. He knows how important huntsman and huntresses are. To faunus and humans alike! He just doesn't care. If he doesn't care about civilian faunus anymore—then who—or what—the hell does he care about?"

"I get you," replied John.

"I used to think there was no way I could make myself fight him—not for real, not with our lives on the line. But now I just—are you listening to me?"

"Uh-huh, yep. You're absolutely right. Hold on a second."

Blake considered how likely it was that she would succeed at pushing John down one of these flights of steps. On the one hand, he didn't seem to be paying much attention. On the other, it wasn't a great idea to mess around with a warrior who wasn't paying attention. His snap-reflex upon noticing her hand going for his shoulder might be to cut off the offending appendage.

Losing a hand.

Wouldn't that be a terrible start to, what promised to be, a terrible evening?

John withdrew a small transmitting device from his pocket. A thin wire ran from the device down under John's hoody's hem. John flicked a small switch at the top of the device and shoved it back in his pocket.

"Testing, testing. This thing working?" said Jaune, withdrawing his scroll.

He waited a few seconds. Then his scroll buzzed.

He seemed satisfied with whatever answer he received as he continued speaking.

"Ah great. Looks like the elevator is out of order so we're taking the stairs. Might take us a while."

After making that announcement he turned back to Blake with a grin. "So," began John—as if he hadn't been ignoring her for the last couple of minutes. "Are we on the same page here?"

Blake swallowed her annoyance in favor of determining what John was talking about. "What page?"

"You know, our game plan? For when we meet Adam?"

Blake paused. That was a good question.

What was her plan? What would she do when she was face-to-face with Adam?

She was angry. And she was going to express that fury. There was no doubt about that.

But…

How?

How was she going to show Adam all her resentment and outrage?

Words didn't seem like they'd quite do justice to her absolute rage.

Taking Adam's _other_ eye…

That seemed more appropriate.

She realized John was talking and she had missed most of what he was saying.

"…at's why we're going to talk things out, right?"

Who was going to talk things out? When?

Blake decided to emulate the blonde. "Yeah, sure. You're absolutely right."

John's eyes narrowed. "I'm serious Blake. This is important."

"I hear you."

"Do you?"

"I get you."

"I feel like you don't."

"You want me to say things at Adam. No worries. I have lots to say."

"No, I don't want you to say things _at_ Adam. I don't even know what that means."

"I get you."

"Do you though?"

Blake nodded. Of course, she understood. She had so much to say. She was going to tear Adam a new one.

No.

Two new ones.

"Roman and Adam are both underlings of the woman I'm after. Getting them both to work with me would make my life several times easier."

"Okay."

"So, you're going to help convince Adam to work with me?"

"I'll convince Adam of s _omething_."

"I'm serious here Blake. There are a _lot_ of lives on the line. This meeting isn't necessarily the event on which all those lives hinge or anything—but it's important, nonetheless. I need to know what to expect from you when we get to the top of this never-ending series of stairs."

Blake groaned internally as she realized this was a question she _had_ to answer.

And, to be honest, she wasn't sure there was an answer. Not yet at least.

"I don't know John. I'm angry. I'm scared. I'm sad. I'm nervous. I'm furious." Blake clenched her fists and stomped a little heavier on the next couple of steps. "I have no idea what I'm going to do when we get up there John. I don't have a clue."

After a few seconds without a response, John's silence prompted her to peek at her companion.

His expression could only be described as understanding. He didn't look the least bit upset that he was going into this meeting with a loose cannon.

It was a small thing, but Blake was grateful.

Of course, that gratitude melted away into irritated soup when Jaune spoke up again.

"So, no idea what you're going to say huh? Not even a clue?"

"Who says I'm going to _say_ anything?"

The more Blake considered her response, the more she realized that, perhaps, she had the right idea already. Why should she waste time trying to figure out what she was going to say to the asshole? Why should she waste brainpower trying to anticipate him?

Let him talk. She would respond however she responded.

Adam would get what was coming to him—she'd figure out just what that looked like once he was before her.

They continued up the stairs in relative silence after that.

Nearly three minutes had passed before they finally arrived on the second to last flight. Any higher and they would reach the roof access.

Jaune's knock echoed through the stairwell.

A few seconds later, the door was answered by a flamboyant thief.

"At least someone around here knows how to use a goddamn door."

I*I*I

Well…

Shit.

Trill glanced between Blake and Adam nervously.

Neither spoke.

Neither moved.

Neither flinched—not even a twitch.

Adam stared at Blake from behind his mask. His lips were pressed flat, his hands fisted at his side.

Blake's eyes didn't slip from the thin slits in Adam's facial covering. She was scowling, one hand rested on the hilt of Gambol Shroud.

It made sense that she'd be in a bit more defensive of a stance. Adam had easier access to his weapon since it rested on his hip and not his back. Plus, the bull faunus was fast. Ridiculously fast.

And then there was John—a question tucked inside a mystery wrapped around an enigma.

Unlike the other two, who were keeping their hands relatively close to their weapons, he was relaxed. There was a broken sword at his waist, but his fingers were laced together and resting behind his head. He looked as if her was parked comfortably on a poolside chair—only he was standing.

The huntsman's eyes, however, belied his casual posture. His azure pupils flicked over every occupant in the room in rapid succession, lingering on Adam the most by a large margin.

The silence stretched on.

And on.

And on.

Nearly two minutes of wordless observation passed before someone spoke.

"I _really_ don't see why _I_ have to be here. Or why _I'm_ the host."

Trill's attention snapped backward, towards where Roman sat on a couch, Neo beside him. The usually capricious duo was visibly tense. At least Roman was. His back was ramrod straight and his toe tapped the ground silently.

Neo wasn't tense per say, more like she was…invested in what was happening around her. She leaned forward, mismatched irises flickering between Blake and Adam.

"Hm…" began John. "Where to start? You're the host, Roman, because, holy shit, this is a nice apartment." John glanced around. "Or, rather, it _was_ a nice apartment. Seems like you really let the place go."

Roman's jaw clenched so hard Trill could hear it.

"As for why you're here," continued John. "Because I'm after Cinder. Both you and Adam are her minions, so I figured this was as good a time as any to meet the two of you together."

Trill glanced at his boss and semi-friend nervously. Adam wasn't going to take kindly to _that_ label.

"I'm no one's _minion_ ," said Adam. There was surprisingly little heat in his tone—well, for him at least.

Trill surmised that the mildness of the response had something to do with how the bull faunus had yet to take his eyes off Blake.

The faunus was too distracted to take mortal offense over the condescending words of a human. In other words, the man was on another planet.

"Ah," replied John. "Not a fan of the 'm' word I see. How about lackey? Or flunky? Oh! Toady. I've always liked calling the bad guy's bootlicking sycophants' toadies..."

Whereas calling him a "minion" had not pulled Adam's attention away from Blake…

That series of comments was more than enough to yank him back to Remnant.

"Shut your mouth you dirty fu—"

Adam was interrupted.

Trill's eyes widened. He stumbled back as Blake chucked her weapon at Adam's masked face.

The White-Fang lieutenant barely dodged the dangerous attack.

Adam turned back towards Blake, almost incredulously—or at least Trill imagined he was incredulous beneath his sterile mask—only to eat an enraged kick to the side of his face.

Blake was a blur of dark shadow and clothing as she snapped her blade back toward her and exchanged a flurry of blows with Adam.

Trill's eyes could hardly follow what was happening.

But his hearing was substantially more developed than his sight.

He could hear every slash of Blake's weapon through the air, the shifting steps as each combatant moved forward or back, and the near feline growl building in Blake's body as she failed to land the hits she so desperately wanted on her former ally.

Adam didn't sound as frustrated as Blake. But his movements were still enunciated with grunts of effort as he struggled to fend off Gambol Shroud without his own weapon.

It was a relief to see that Adam wasn't drawing.

Trill wasn't sure he'd ever seen Adam draw Wilt and not maim his opponent. Well there was Neo, but even then, she was only alive because she was an insanely strong fighter herself.

Even when sparring opponents with aura Adam used a practice sword.

He was just too deadly with the real thing.

"Holy shit. She really did just attack without saying a word."

Trill glanced at John. The huntsman still had his hands behind his head, fingers interlocked, posture relaxed. The man met his gaze, explaining, "I asked her what she was going to say when she was facing him. She told me, 'who says I'm going to _say_ anything'? I didn't really know if that meant she was just going to stare at him for a really long time… or give him a disappointed look and then leave… or just go full ca-razy on his ass. Guess it was option number three, huh?"

Trill was less taken aback by the words John spoke than he was by the tone with which he spoke them. The huntsman sounded as if he was discussing the weather. As if there wasn't a single drop of tension in the room. As if Blake wasn't trying to behead her once-friend and Adam wasn't dodging for his life and smacking away tempered steel with his gloved hands.

Trill turned back towards the fight when he heard a strange noise, like glass breaking but in reverse. He was surprised to see Blake, or rather, a copy of her, made entirely from ice. One of Adam's arms was lodged inside the ice. His other arm was pinned to Blake's side. The cat faunus's free hand held her leveled blade with Adam's right mask slit.

The fight paused, for an instant. And then Blake was moving, driving her weapon through Adam's eye.

Or, at least, she would have, had John not yanked her by her collar.

Trill blinked as Blake stumbled backward. When had John moved?

"Remember what we discussed on our way over?" questioned John. "Talking things out?"

Blake didn't stop glaring at Adam as she replied. "I did talk things out."

" _When_?" said John.

"Before."

"With _who_?"

"Me," snipped Blake curtly.

"Oh," began John, voice cheery. "You talked things out—with you. That's good. No, that's great. That's exactly what I meant when I suggested it. Yeah. Talk about your emotional issues with the most emotionally-intelligent and least-biased person you can find—yourself. What kind of advice did you give yourself?" John's voice transitioned into an obnoxious falsetto. "' _Self, I'm really angry at the Satan horned goat faunus_.'" His voice stayed falsetto but took on an even more obnoxious gravel, like a high-pitched old woman who had smoked a pack-a-day since infancy. " **' _Huh? Some guy is bothering you Blake? Kill that piece of shit. What, John needs to at least talk to him before you kill him? Fuck John. That bastard can learn necromancy if he wants to talk to the angry heifer so bad. After you kill the horny faunus, take care of the punk-rock emo thief and drop the short kid off at the nearest orphanage. Then that freak John can save Vale by his lonesome. How's that sound?'_** _"_ John's voice changed back to the plain falsetto. " _That…sounds…awesome self! I'm so glad I consulted with such a level-headed and super-intelligent resource!"_

Trill could feel his eyes widening involuntarily. Each sentence John completed sent a pulse of dread down his spine. His bulging eyes raced around the room. The huntsman had managed to insult every single murderous, angry, or psychotic person present.

And he had done so gleefully.

Blake and Adam had gotten the brunt of it but—for some reason—the man had decided he'd be remiss to skip over the professional criminals—even the terrifying butchering little one.

Adam was the first to respond.

He did not respond verbally.

Adam lurched forward nearly twice as fast as when he'd been fighting Blake. Trill's eyes weren't quick enough to be certain of the speed change, but double seemed a reasonable assumption, since the fight between Adam and Blake looked like a blurry mess and this new movement looked less like a blur and more like Adam's limbs and body were teleporting to new locations.

In one instant his hands were open, held in a loose guard, in the next they were grasping his weapon's hilt.

In one instant he was several feet away from John, with Blake standing in between them, in the next he was past Blake, well within slashing range of John.

The action froze, like a photograph. Trill struggled to understand what he had just seen.

If Adam's movements were like teleportation, then John's were like…

Like he was already there.

Like Trill had imagined that the huntsman was hanging back, arms cocked lazily behind his head. Like he'd already known the exact location, speed, and style of Adam's attack and had settled into his response before Adam even moved.

John's right hand rested on Adam's. His left hand held his shattered—but plenty sharp—sword against the faunus's throat.

Wilt was still partially sheathed.

John had interrupted Adam's slash before the tip of his weapon came free.

Trill's heart nearly stopped beating. The silence and stillness of the room was like concrete. Blake wasn't moving. Adam wasn't moving. John wasn't moving.

Adam and Neo didn't _sound_ like they were moving.

No one was even breathing, least of all Trill.

Fittingly, John broke the thick silence.

"I'm not the kind of opponent you come at _before_ you've drawn your blade. Not unless you want a foot off the top?"

John stared into Adam's mask unflinchingly.

Adam returned his glare.

After what felt like an hour, but was probably only a few short seconds, Adam stepped backward; his blade retreated into its sheath.

Trill resumed breathing when John allowed the movement.

But he had a feeling it was only a matter of time before his breath was stolen again.

I*I*I

Here went nothing.

Goddamn, he wished he had Ruby and Weiss for this.

Ruby could make friends with anyone even dangerous murderous individuals—it probably helped that her cheerful nature and insane destructiveness on the battlefield left most wannabe baddies quaking. She could have self-centered or vengeful pricks like Adam and Roman eating out of the palm of her hand.

And once Neo realized how much lethality was hiding behind Ruby's girlish charm—well the multi-colored midget would practically be in love.

And Weiss.

Weiss could formulate downright irresistible arguments. She could weave webs of logic that even the irrational had a hard time escaping. Neither Roman's savviness nor Adam's stubbornness would save them from her unwavering persuasive ability.

The woman could convince a fish that it could breathe on dry land—and then figure out some way to make the claim true too.

Then there was him.

Jaune Arc.

Weiss and Ruby _claimed_ he was every bit as good with people as the two of them. But Jaune knew that was bullshit.

Jaune knew how to knock heads. He knew how to inspire confidence in soldiers—by lending them some that he had mastered producing artificially.

But could he show a criminal the error of their ways? Give hope to the hopeless? Convince the obsessed that the consequences of their actions _weren't_ whatever they thought they'd be?

"Alright, enough playing around. let's get down to business, shall we?"

Jaune grabbed a nearby barstool and promptly sat. He kept his senses open but mostly focused on Adam. Of everyone in the room, the bull faunus was most likely to take a shot at him when he least expected it. Sure, Roman and Neo might try the same—but it was less likely. Those two were more rational and more afraid of him.

Who would have thought there would come a day where he would think of _Neo_ as being more rational than someone else?

 _Neo._

"You and Roman are working for Cinder Fall, correct?"

Adam's response was more hiss than reply. "I don't work for humans."

"My bad," apologized Jaune. "You're working _with_ but in a supporting and subservient role?"

Adam growled.

Was everyone sure this guy was a cow faunus? Did cows growl? Were cows this aggressive?

Was milking as dangerous as hunting?

"I don't care one way or the other if you think you're Cinder's equal. You're not. But I don't care if you think you are."

Jaune ignored Adam's mounting bristling.

"I'm after Cinder's boss—you don't know her—you would if you were _actually_ Cinder's equal, but you don't because you're not."

Adam's shoulders were getting stiffer and stiffer, his hand drifted almost lazily to his sword's hilt.

Maybe that was enough riling him up.

Maybe.

"Cinder's boss presents an unprecedented threat, not just to any one kingdom but to life on Remnant as a whole. This includes but is not limited to Menagerie, Atlas, Vacuo, Vale, Mistral, and every village, hermit, or wanderer between them. This threat does not distinguish between Faunus or human. Man or woman. Child or adult. Huntsman or civilian. To fight under Cinder, to help her, is to fight for Grimm. It is to fight for the end of most, if not all life on this planet."

Jaune watched the lower half of Adam's face. He didn't frown. He didn't flinch. He didn't part his lips.

Perhaps an approaching apocalypse wasn't the sort of thing that could grab his attention.

"Adam Taurus of the White Fang…" Jaune drummed his fingers on Roman's destroyed island counter. "Tell me, what do you fight for?"

"I don't owe you an explanation," growled Adam.

"Then how about me?" inserted Blake testily. "I fought alongside you for years. I trusted you. You were my best friend. Do I get an explanation? Do I get to find out when you became…whatever you are now—or if you were always this way?"

Adam's head turned, ever so slightly. He was keeping Jaune well within his sight while looking at his ex-partner. "Blake…" He trailed off. Eventually he restarted. "What are you talking about?"

Jaune, and Blake apparently, waited for him to say more. It wasn't until a few seconds had passed that they realized that it was not a rhetorical question.

"I'm asking, Adam," said Blake. "When did you become this unbearable monster that I can't stand to even look at?"

"And again," replied Adam. "I'll ask what are you talking about? How have I changed?"

"Are you serious!?" shouted Blake. "You're trying to take down a huntsman academy? Flood the city with Grimm?" Her voice rose an octave and a few decibels, taking on a certain shrillness. "A city of children and shopkeepers and teachers and parents and brothers and sisters and…" She gasped, the beginning of a sob working through her body. "…humans and… faunus… and you…" she trailed off as another sob wracked her frame.

Jaune glanced between Adam and Blake. Oum, he wished Taurus wasn't wearing that mask.

What was he thinking? Did he care about what was being discussed? Did he care about the impact it was having on Blake? Did he care about anything at all?

Jaune certainly cared. He felt his heart break a little for his old friend as he watched her, so torn between grief and rage.

The room was silent, except for Blake's sobs, until Adam finally broke the quiet. "And I ask again. How. Have. I. Changed?"

Blake glared at the redhead with teary eyes.

"I've always been willing," Adam continued. "To sacrifice, Blake. Resources, opportunities, others, myself…" He shook his head. "I've always been willing to do what needs to be done no matter what. I haven't changed Blake. What's changed is what needs to be done."

"Shut up," said Blake, voice weakened. "I've had it with your stupid arguments and fancy explanations."

"You asked Blake. You asked when I became what I've become. The truth is, I've always been this way. I thought you were too."

Adam no longer bothered with keeping Jaune in sight. His attention was lasered on Blake. "I used to think it was the world changing. Making things worse. Calling for more sacrifice. Screaming for more drastic action." He shrugged. "But I was wrong. The world wasn't changing. The world refuses to change. That's the problem, in fact. The world doesn't change. And I wanted it too. And if I recall correctly… So. Did. _You_."

Blake stepped backward, as if struck.

"It was that gradual understanding that, I suppose you might say, _changed_ me. But I didn't really change. I just became more aware of the truth. Protests and pickets and marches won't do shit. The world is just as unchanging as I am. If you want to make the world give you an inch, make it shift even a microscopic amount—you need to be willing to do the unthinkable. Do things that will shake the foundations upon which everything is built."

Adam lifted his hand to his mask, as if he might take it off, but, after a few seconds of contemplation, he left it in place.

He turned his attention back to Jaune.

"You're not wrong. I don't know anything about Cinder's boss. But perhaps she has the right idea for this miserable planet."

"How can you say that!?" cried Blake.

Jaune remained silent. Thoughtful.

There was a depth to Adam here. Something he'd never seen—or bothered to see—back in his own time. Perhaps at the time when he was dealing with Adam he was still too young, too naïve, too blind. But now, after enduring what he had endure. After seeing what he had seen.

Adam's pain. His rage. His willingness to give up anything to achieve close to nothing.

It was all too familiar.

He didn't have Ruby's ability to befriend anyone. And he didn't have Weiss's innate skill with persuasion.

But this…

This he understood.

He understood all too well.

"I _told_ you Blake. I can say it, because its true."

"But—"

Jaune interrupted her. "He's right Blake."

"What?" Her attention snapped towards him.

"He's right," repeated Jaune, still studying Adam. "The world doesn't change unless it's dragged over broken glass kicking and screaming—or changed gradually while its unaware I suppose but that's relatively rare. The fight for faunus freedom has never proceeded the way it should—because the world refuses to change. A mass Grimm incursion on Vale—the eventual apocalypse. That'll change the world in a way the White Fang never could."

"You mean it'll change the world by ending it?" mocked Blake.

"Any movement is better than stagnation, isn't it, Adam?"

Adam's full attention was back on Jaune as the blonde abandoned his barstool and took the few necessary steps to bring himself into Adam's cutting range.

"I see you, Adam Taurus. I see all of you."

Adam scoffed.

He wouldn't be scoffing by the end of this.

Jaune was certain of that.

Because Jaune understood how he became this way. He understood what brought him both to this place and the even darker one he reached in Jaune's old timeline.

"The man who would sacrifice everything. The man who would give up anything. The man who has been willing to do anything to accomplish his goals since the day he was born. Adam Taurus." Jaune stroked his stubble. "That's how you think of yourself, isn't it, Adam? Hell, it's _almost_ who you are. But only _almost_. Because you're not being entirely honest with us or yourself, are you Adam? You've always been willing to sacrifice, yes, true, fair. But to claim that you haven't changed at all…well that's not true, is it? After all, why are you here?"

Adam's head twitched towards Roman, before he clamped down on the motion, evidently resolving himself not to give anything away, not to indulge a stranger's intrusive questions.

But Jaune had already received enough. "Don't give me that load of crap. You're not here for Roman. You're here for Blake." Jaune took another step forward. This time, Adam took a step back. "You've changed Adam, just in the opposite direction from what Blake assumes. You, Adam Taurus, the man who's willing to sacrifice anything… who's willing to sacrifice everything… found something he's not willing to sacrifice."

Jaune took another step forward. Adam took another step back.

"You don't know what you're talking about," the bull faunus snarled.

"Oh, but I do Adam. I've been there." Flashes of memory ran through Jaune's head. Pieces of the darkest times of his life floated to the surface of his mind. "I've stood at the precipice both literal and figurative, staring out at the broken twisted world and thought _there's nothing I wouldn't do, wouldn't give up, wouldn't sacrifice to change this_."

Adam's breath quickened, noticeable because of his jerky chest movements. "And I've also had to deal with the realization that that thought, that feeling, that _identity_ —because that's what it is really, an identity—I've had to deal with the realization that all that simply isn't true. There was always something I wasn't willing to sacrifice—always _someone_ —or a couple of _someone's_ if I'm being honest."

"That's because you're weak," raged Adam.

Jaune laughed. "If I'm weak then what are you? I'm not shaking. Why are you shaking?"

"I'm angry."

"Yeah, probably, but that's not all, is it?"

Adam clenched his teeth and rested his hand on Wilt. "Enough."

"I'm not quite done yet," replied Jaune. "Let me let you in on a secret." His voice dropped a bit but was still audible to everyone in the room. "Cinder's boss is the worst parts of our world. The worst elements. The worst emotions. The darkest spots. You can't even imagine. You want an example of a being… an existence… a force… that remains unaltered, that does not turn, move, or grow? She's as unchanging as the Grimm. As powerful as a natural disaster. A blackhole of anger, malice, and rage purified and strengthened for centuries, millennia—Oum knows how long."

Jaune took two steps forward this time.

Adam took one step back and found the glass window. Jaune reached out, grabbing his lapel, yanking him forward. "She's immortal. She's indestructible. She's the closest thing this world has known to a god since the originals left. And I…" Jaune paused. "…I'm going to kill her." This close, Jaune could see Adam's one good eye through the mask, welling up with some sort of emotion. "Now, none of that was the secret. That was just the background. The secret is how I got this strong. Strong enough to kill a demi-god. Strong enough to stand when no one else can." Jaune reared back his head. "Strong enough to…" he rocketed his forehead into Adam's mask. The mask cracked but held as their aura flared. "…change the fucking world."

I*I*I

This human.

This human was something else. Something otherworldly. Something…

Just _something_.

Adam resisted his screaming instincts, telling him to lash out, to do something. How could he have allowed John to close the distance so easily—without any form of reprisal? Now he was too close to even slash properly.

And the human's aura. It was flaring. Lighting up like a beacon, flooding the room with brilliant light.

Adam had never seen anything like it.

The forehead smashing into his mask was painful—but nowhere near as bad as it could have been. With the amount of aura John was casually displaying Adam had a feeling the man could smash his forehead into Adam's over and over until there was nothing left of his head—and Jaune would hardly feel the strain.

"I'm stronger than you Adam," continued John, as if he hadn't just rammed their heads together. "I'm stronger than most goddamn people. There's probably not a single human alive today who could beat me in a fight. I'm strong enough to change things and not just arbitrarily—like you—but actually make them better. I didn't get this strong by being willing to sacrifice anyone and anything—not even by being willing to sacrifice myself, although I am."

Had his mask fallen off his face?

It felt like his mask had fallen. It was supposed to be a barrier between him and the world he hated. But it didn't feel like there was anything between him and John right now. No barrier, no space.

"No, Adam, strength, real strength, the kind of strength that can change everything… That comes from having things you're unwilling to sacrifice. People you won't give up. Codes you won't go back on. Decisions you won't undo. It comes from having those and being willing to do everything in your power to protect them. That's where you get the strength, the skill, the tenacity, the drive, the will, to…Change. The. Fucking. World."

Adam swallowed what felt like sawdust but was probably a mixture of saliva and a bit of blood.

He couldn't look away from the human's eyes. They were barely even a color with his aura flaring like a spotlight, more like head lights with some special sort of radiance that ignored the viewer's eyes and instead pierced their brain. It was all he could see. All he could feel. A tidal wave of aura that threatened to burn him alive, freeze him solid, or set him free.

There was something wet dripping down his palms. It likely wasn't sweat, considering how tightly he clenched his fists.

Was this human…

This huntsman…

This…

John.

Was he right? Was his willingness to sacrifice everything…

Weakness?

Was his acceptance that he couldn't make the world he wanted and his willingness to just make the world something different—even if it was worse…

Was that cowardice? Was it…fear?

Was he…?

Was everything he'd done…?

No.

He refused to accept this. Any of it. It didn't matter how pretty the words that were spoken. It didn't matter how much sense they made. It didn't matter that his body could feel that this man knew of what he spoke—that the strength he so desperately needed was right here in front of him. He refused to accept any of that.

John was right about one thing though. He had come here for one reason. Blake. She was the thing he couldn't give up. The thing he couldn't sacrifice. And she made him weaker for it.

If he was going to embrace his destiny. If he was going to change this ugly, rotten world…

He needed to let her go.

But could he.

Could he bare it?

Could he…

"Get out…" his voice escaped him in a whisper.

"What?" said John.

"I said," began Adam, his voice building into a shout. "Get out!" He shoved John away from him. "Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out!"

His voice built in volume with each repetition.

John and Blake exchanged a look.

Blake stepped forward. "Adam…"

"Leave! Now!"

The two exchanged another look. There seemed to be some silent argument happening between them. Eventually, Blake rescinded with a downward tilt of her shoulders. She walked towards the stairwell entrance. She paused as she opened the door. "Adam…I…I'm sorry that I'm…not who you thought I was."

Then she was gone.

John followed her shortly. He stopped at the door as well. He turned. "You know, I could have hit you a lot harder. Broken that mask in half. But that's not my job. It's not anyone else's. You're making a choice here Adam. One you're going to regret."

"What do you know?" Adam spat with a venom.

"Nothing, you'd be interested in, I guess. Enjoy hiding behind a mask Adam. I hope it keeps your bed warm at night."

Then he was gone.

Adam watched the door close behind them.

He was…

He was alone.

He was finally alone.

"Well…this is awkward."

Adam jerked his attention toward the voice. That's right. This hadn't just been a meeting between him, John, and Blake. Roman, Neo, and Trill were here too.

Shit.

He hoped he was just imagining what felt like a tear working its way down his cheek.

He hoped.

"This is my place," continued Torchwick. "So normally, I wouldn't listen to the random guy—I did not invite, by the way—screaming _Get out! Get out! Get out!_ But…Neo and I do have some errands to run and you look like you could probably use some me-time so…" Roman nodded to Neo. The two disappeared with a sound of breaking glass.

"Adam…" started Trill.

"Trill…just go."

The faunus couldn't have left faster. Adam slid down the glass barrier to his back, shirt riding up and back burning as he did so.

And then there was him. Alone.

This was fine right?

This was the way it was meant to be. This was the path he had chosen. You sacrifice everything and everyone—you wind up alone. He knew that from the start. He _chose_ to carry on, regardless. That was who he was. He reached up, feeling for his mask, reassuring himself that it was still there.

This was who he needed to be.

I*I*I

"I apologize," began Jaune. "I know you all were probably looking for more…confirmation about the White Fang's plans and more information about Cinder. I got…carried away."

Glynda, Qrow, and Ozpin fixed him with a unique mixture of expressions. Glynda was looking at him thoughtfully, as if revaluating him. Qrow was giving him his patented "you're a real piece of work" look. And Ozpin looked bemused.

"I must say Mister Arc, you are capable of conveying quite a bit of passion when you wish too. Although I am not pleased with the amount of information you shared concerning Salem."

Jaune sighed. He had a feeling Ozpin was going to say that. "I know. A lot of that slipped out. I'm from a time where Salem was open-knowledge—among huntsmen at least. Plenty of civvies knew too. And I understand your reasons for keeping her a secret for so many years—I do. But it won't matter for this iteration of your life Ozpin. Part of the reason we lost so badly in my time was because you were still playing the long game when Salem decided it was time to go for all the marbles. Stop thinking about surviving Salem for the next hundred years. Start thinking about killing her in the next two. Otherwise we start losing, badly, in five."

"I see," said Ozpin, thoughtfully.

"What I want to talk about," said Qrow. "Is you lighting up like a mini-star in there, nearly blinded me. What was that about?"

"Did I do that?" asked John, legitimately surprised.

Qrow nodded enthusiastically.

"I didn't realize. I uh…I have a lot of aura." The understatement of the century. "When I flare it a little too much, it tends to go visible. Sorry if I hurt your eyes."

"Just flaring your aura…?" muttered Qrow.

Clearly he was thinking it was some kind of semblance.

Jaune turned to Glynda, raising an eyebrow. Ozpin had something to say, Qrow had something to say. He assumed she would make it three for three.

"I don't have any questions about your performance in the penthouse. I understand why you did what you did rather than extract information. As dangerous and unstable as he may be, Adam Taurus is a child who is hurting himself and the people around him. He was need of a stern talking to. His willingness to sacrifice everything and everyone was a problem. I was pleased to hear you straighten him out."

Unsurprising, really. Glynda was a teacher through and through. When she saw a youth in need of correction, she couldn't help but to correct. Jaune snuck a peek at Ozpin, a man who also had problems with his willingness to make moral, personal, and personnel sacrifices. His face was, as per usual, a mask.

"Regardless," said Ozpin. "You have pointed us in the direction of key factions we will need to keep under surveillance. More intelligence would have been ideal, but these results are still very beneficial.

"Happy to hear that," replied Jaune.

"I would like to speak of the future with you more. You indicated you have a few tasks to take care of tonight will there be a more convenient time for a discussion soon?"

"Over the next couple of days, sure."

"If it's going to be a few days perhaps I we could quickly go over the most pressing concerns now?"

Jaune shrugged. He needed to get Pip to agree to become his assistant and he was thinking a nice dinner to show how great being his assistant would be could do the trick. Which meant he had to figure out where they would eat and find something to wear and find money as well. But another twenty minutes in here wouldn't be a problem.

He hoped.

What if someone tried to poach—no offensive faunus animal-heritage related pun intended—his future assistant while he was stuck in here? What if she was being head-hunted? Again, no offensive pun intended.

"First off, I believe Glynda wanted to finalize your name, for official documentation."

"Ah," said Jaune. "Well…" he stalled. He hadn't really thought about his last name. Not at all. Well if Jaune could become John…?

"Shark…" he mumbled under his breath.

"What was that?" said Glynda.

Jaune's mind raced.

"Skydas."

"Skydas?" confirmed Glynda.

Jaune nodded.

Did she know what it meant?

"Fascinating choice… Mr. Skydas."

Ozpin definitely knew what it meant.

" _Try Bras?_ "

And Qrow didn't have a clue.

"Do you mind if I ask why Skydas?" said Ozpin.

Jaune shrugged. "In my time, people called me that. Dangaus Skydas."

"People spoke of you in one of the oldest Valesian tongues…in the future?" asked Ozpin.

Jaune offered up another shrug. "It just sort of caught on. I doubt most even knew what it meant. I had a title in the common tongue as well."

Ozpin gave him a questioning look.

Jaune decided not to indulge him.

Just to be a prick.

"The other pressing concern," began Glynda. "As we see it, are your immediate plans. You've spoken in depth about what awaits the kingdoms. The destruction that Salem wrought. But you have spoken surprisingly little about what you intend to do about it."

Ah.

"Well…" began Jaune. "I was supposed to come back here with Ruby. Our plans were supposed to involve two of us. Because I'm by myself I complete my mission the way it was originally designed. What I know for certain is that I have to stay subtle."

"Subtle?" questioned Qrow.

Jaune nodded. "Not to toot my own horn or anything, but if I wanted to, I could have come back to the past with a vengeance. I could be making huge waves, upending everyone and everything. I _could_. But then we wouldn't _know_ what's coming next. We wouldn't _know_ how the dice are going to land. That's why I've kept my impact minimal. Facilitating a meeting between Adam, Blake, and myself, as well as bringing Roman under my wing are the two biggest thing I've changed. And Roman I've instructed to keep acting as he did in the original timeline—so not much change there. And based off how that meeting went—not too much has changed—on Adam's end at least. Blake's probably a bit more stable since she got it all off her chest though. Which, as far as I'm concerned, is a positive change—"

"You can't know that for certain though," interjected Glynda. "Arguably, any change, even altering the direction of a blade of grass, could diverge our history from the one you know."

"Mmm…" replied Jaune. "Weiss rambled about that a while, when she was working through time travel out loud. A butterfly in Vale causing a blizzard in Atlas, right? But that's all just theory, right? Tiny variable changes causing giant changes in result?"

Glynda nodded.

"It seems a little far-fetched to me," replied Jaune. "How does a tiny thing, like a pebble out of place, change the flow of history?"

Glynda shrugged. "Depends on which pebble's out of place, doesn't it?"

Jaune laughed. "You mean if the pebble I kick out of place is the one Cinder slips on, hits her head, and develops permanent amnesia?"

The corner of Glynda's lips rose. Just a bit. "Precisely."

"Well, I've been kicking many pebbles…" began Jaune.

I*I*I

 _In the Near Future_

"Jaune."

"Dad?"

Mathias stared at his son. He was right. Jaune was too old.

Unfortunately, so was John.

If he didn't get this boy some aura and training soon. He'd jump in front of a Beowolf for someone and that'd be the end of that.

"Come outside."

Jaune set his Xray and Vav comic to the side and rolled off his bed.

"Why?"

"Your sisters and I are going to start training you."

Jaune's eyes widened. "Really!?"

"Yeah. You're going to Beacon."

"Really!?" His voice cracked as he nearly shouted.

"Yes," replied Mathias. "Next year."

"Next year!" exclaimed Jaune. "But I'll be a year older than everyone else…"

"You'll go in as a second year."

"Really? Can you do that?"

"Of course," said Mathias a hard edge coating his voice that even a boy as oblivious as Jaune couldn't miss. "Because, by next year…" he motioned for Jaune to follow him down the stairs. "…that's the level you'll be at."

I*I*I

"…but I'm happy to say I haven't been kicking any of those crazy important ones…"

I*I*I

 _In the Near Future_

Roman and Neo returned to their wrecked apartment nearly six hours after they left—Roman with two duffel bags of Lien.

"Grab whatever you want to keep Neo. If it's something we can just buy when we get there, then don't bother—yes, I'm talking about ice cream. We have more than enough dough for ice cream."

Roman quickly paced over to his bedroom. His door, the wall, and most of his stuff that stood taller than three feet off the ground was destroyed by Adam's energy slash but the important stuff—his bug out stuff—that was kept under the bed.

He pushed open both halves of his split door.

"Shit!" he swore as he jumped back.

A listless looking Adam sat at his desk, in front of his laptop which, fortunately, was closed when the slash traveled through the room. Otherwise, the screen would have been cut in two.

On the desk was a half-drank bottle of Brandy—the good stuff too—, Adam's mask, and a pile of papers he had clearly recently printed.

"You're still here, huh?"

Adam barely moved to acknowledge him.

Roman took a moment to observe the faunus's features.

His left eye was closed, perhaps permanently, a brand stretched across his face. A nasty scar. But not a bad looking guy overall.

"You're leaving?" asked Adam, looking at the duffel bags in Roman's hands.

"Our friend John made a good point." Began Roman, keeping an eye on Adam as he maneuvered to the opposite side of his bed and reached underneath. "Best to figure out what you're not willing to sacrifice and protect it. For me, that's me and mine. I'll reconquer this city once my life isn't so threatened in it." Roman pulled out his two garment bags and unopened Zestée Chauder mascara and eyeliner set. "I'm taking a well-earned vacation." He walked briskly to the door. "Tell Cinder I said suck a Grimm dick. And the two of you enjoy unleashing the Grimm apocalypse or whatever you're trying to do…as a matter of fact…" Roman returned to his room, opened his printer tray, grabbed a piece of paper, and wrote a quick note. "Neo, come sign this!"

Neo appeared at the doorway at that moment, a duffel bag of who-knows-what on one shoulder and her umbrella resting on the other. She chuckled silently as she read the note and signed her name with a flourish.

"Give this to her, will you?"

Adam hardly reacted as he took the note.

Roman made sure he had his duffel bags of money, his spare outfits, and his makeup kit.

Everything was in order.

"Neo,"

His partner in crime looked up at him with a twinkle in her eyes.

"Let's go somewhere warm."

Glass shattered. And they were gone.

I*I*I

"…You're right, I can't perfectly predict the impact my actions are going to have on the world around me," continued Jaune. "But I don't think just meeting me is going to radically alter someone's life trajectory..."

I*I*I

 _In the Near Future_

Vernal watched Raven watch the matches. She'd never seen her master look so…bored with violence and bloodshed.

She almost looked depressed.

She returned her attention to the match. Admittedly, since watching John…slaughter a group of fifty warriors, these one-on-one fights between common thugs were a tad…tedious but were they that bad?

"Vernal…I can't do this anymore."

Vernal was snapped out of her musings by Raven's voice.

"Do…what?" asked Vernal.

"Watch this shit." Raven motioned to the two bare chested men slashing at each other below.

"Ah. Well…I know, the combat isn't particularly satisfying—"

"Hm… I bet John's reached Ozpin already, that means he might be near my brother…which means I can open a long-range portal to him…"

"O-Oh. Are you going to challenge him to a fight?"

"Maybe afterward."

"A-after what?"

Raven smirked. "What do you think?"

Oh.

 _Oh._

"It's been a while. Normally a good fight is good enough. But what I need right now is a good f—"

"I'll do it," the words slipped out of Vernal's mouth before she could think through what she was saying. Horror replaced blood in her veins. She didn't show it though. She couldn't afford to. Raven didn't respect cowardice.

"Oh, will you now?" said Raven, a dangerous glint in her crimson eyes. "I'm complaining about how long it's been since I've found a man who could handle me, and you volunteer?"

Vernal shrugged with a casualness she did not feel.

What the hell was she doing? What the hell was she thinking?

Stupid.

Stupid.

Stupid.

Please just let it drop.

Please just let it drop.

A portal opened to her immediate right. A hand closed on her jacket and she was yanked through. There was a disconcerting sensation as gravity flipped, up, down, left, and right all shifted orientation and suddenly she was falling.

She only fell about five feet. She landed on a bed.

Raven's bed.

Shit.

I*I*I

"…and some of the events that are going to occur in the future are based on people and organizations with well-orchestrated plans and deep-rooted desires. Those don't change just because some guy decided to have a heart-to-heart with Adam Taurus."

I*I*I

 _In the Near Future_

"What is all this stuff?"

Trill sighed.

How did this become his responsibility?

"Grimm…dust…weapons…stuff we're collecting for the big attack or whatever…?"

"What is everyone doing?"

Trill shrugged. "Preparing, I guess…? Adam wasn't really clear on what we should be doing."

"They look like they're slacking to me. Gather them up."

Trill groaned. How did he go from a high-level intelligence gathering agent to…whatever this was?

It didn't take him too long to gather the forty or fifty White Fang around the camp and present to their newly established leader.

Illia Amitola looked over the gathered Fang with narrowed eyes.

She began with a strength to her voice that Trill did not remember her having. There was a sort-of…leader quality to her—a drive—that Trill had never associated with the chameleon faunus. Perhaps…

Perhaps there was hope.

Perhaps this would work out.

"Brothers and sisters of the Fang! Adam has asked me to lead you in his stead. It is my greatest honor to do just that. I will be commanding our Vale operations until Adam sees fit to come back. Mine will be a command of prioritization. We will be cautious. We will be smart. And we will prioritize."

Illia's gaze swept over the crowd resolutely. "I noticed many of you playing games lazing around and wasting time. That shit ends today." Her eyes smoldered, burning into each faunus she had spotted doing less than stellar work.

Credit where credit was due. Trill was impressed.

"I also noticed some of you preparing for our major operation in Vale."

Trill looked over the crowd. There weren't many here who had been hard at work, but he supposed they _existed_.

"That shit ends today too."

Hm?

Illia produced a large roll of paper from her pack. She began unfurling

Was it a map? Was it the blueprints for a building?

"Ah."

Trill couldn't stop the noise from slipping from between his lips when he saw the giant headshot of Blake Belladonna.

"The _safe_ retrieval of Blake Belladonna is our new priority."

A hand was raised in the crowd.

Illia pointed toward the faunus.

"What about those of us who are on Grimm duty? We don't really have time for side assignments."

"This isn't a _side_ assignment," corrected Illia. "This is the _only_ assignment. We've found Blake. We're not letting her get away or, worse, _hurt_. Do you understand? _This_ is what everyone will be focusing on."

"Okay…" said the inquisitive faunus. "So, we aren't catching Grimm. But we still have to watch the ones we ha—"

"Tell me, will those Grimm help us with the _safe_ retrieval of Blake Belladonna?" Illia's glare was scorching.

The badger faunus sunk into his jacket. "N-no?"

"Then get rid of them," interrupted Illia.

A gasp went over the crowd.

Trill pinched his sinuses.

"What about the faunus who are helping with the dust stuff in the city?" asked someone else in the crowd.

"Recall them."

Trill approached Illia and spoke in a low voice. "Surely you don't mean to recall everyone? Adam's been working on this thing for a while. Do we really want to undo everything?"

"And where is Adam _now_ Trill?"

"Well…"

"I'd say Adam's priorities are the same as mine, wouldn't you?"

Welp.

Couldn't argue with that could he?

Trill moved a little ways from the crowd, searching for a nice place to lay down and close his eyes. When he found one, he tried to go to his happy place. He couldn't believe he had bothered being awake during the day for this _nonsense_. Why were teenagers running so much of the White Fang? He drifted off to the sound of Illia commanding the crowd to "start brainstorming ideas to bring Blake back to her—err—them".

I*I*I

"Yes…the immediate future will change a bit. But, come on, no matter how many _pebbles_ I kick or where they land, it's not going to change _that_ much…"

I*I*I

 _In the Near Future_

Adam studied his mask.

He had lied.

He had stolen.

He had killed.

He had…

He had hurt Blake.

He adjusted his position on Roman's uncomfortable bed, watching his mask stare back at him on the opposite pillow.

He had turned down the air conditioning to its lowest setting, stripped down to his boxers and tried to get comfortable on the master thief's overly soft bed—after tearing off his comforter and sheets of course.

Goosebumps sprouted all over his skin. His body began to shiver.

John was right. This piece of shit mask couldn't keep his bed warm.

Oum.

If it could, would it matter? A warm bed was just one of a thousand things this mask couldn't do.

It couldn't make him stronger.

It couldn't make him better.

It couldn't…

It couldn't love him.

He touched his injury.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

He rolled off the bed. He downed the rest of the brandy. He didn't particularly like the taste but at least it got the job done. He picked up a pen. He started filling out the forms he had printed out.

He couldn't believe he was doing this.

But you know what?

Fuck the world _and_ the White Fang.

What had either ever done for him?

He reread the title at the top of the page—making sure he had printed the right one.

 _Beacon Student Application Form._

Yep.

That was the one.

I*I*I

"…as long as the big events still happen in similar ways. And people still act the same way they did last time around, my knowledge of the future should still be spot on…"

I*I*I

 _In the Near Future_

"Um…" Emerald swallowed.

Cinder studied her most loyal pawn. The girl looked as if she was about to cry.

"Something wrong Emerald?"

"Just…ah…we received a message from um…Roman and uh…Ad—"

Cinder interrupted her. "A message from Roman, how lovely. Why don't you read it to me?"

Emerald's eyes widened. "I-I'd rather not."

Cinder's eyes narrowed. "Why not?"

"J-just…probably best if you…uh… _read_ it yourself."

Cinder considered demanding that Emerald read the note to her…but decided the power play wasn't worth the effort. Emerald was almost too submissive at times, there wasn't much point to exerting her control just for the sake of it when Emerald was already her slave.

"Very well, give it here."

Emerald approached as if she were walking to her death.

Cinder's expression tightened.

She took the note. It was simple a simple message, conveyed through a simple drawing. A well-drawn fist with a middle finger raised. And three signatures at the bottom. Roman Torchwick, Neo Politan, and Adam Taurus.

She scarcely had time to consider what she was viewing before the paper was already ashes wafting toward the floor.

"Emerald." She spoke from between gritted teeth. "Get Mercury. Its time for us to take a…trip into town."

Emerald vanished from the room so quickly Cinder wondered if she might not have used her semblance to render herself selectively invisible.

What. The. Hell. Did. That. Note. Mean?

I*I*I

"But, if it makes you worry less, I'll be sure to keep my head, _way_ down from here on out. Make sure I don't set off any crazy…b-b—what did you call them Glynda?"

"Butterfly effects," supplied Glynda.

"Yeah, butterfly effects. Wouldn't want to set off any of those."

Jaune laughed.

Seriously, Glynda was overreacting. He'd barely even started changing things here.

I*I*I

 _In the Near Future_

Poison, high-caliber rifles with aura piercing ammo, traps—there were so many ways to kill a headmaster.

Clint browsed the fourth-year section of the library with a smile and dead eyes.

But…

Which was the most painful?

I*I*I

Jaune whistled as he approached the elevator.

Should he take her to a fancy restaurant?

I*I*I

 _In the Near Future_

"Dad, I need to tell you and Yang something…"

Tai studied his youngest daughter. "What's wrong Ruby Booby?"

"Dad don't call me that!"

"Sorry…sorry."

"I heard you need to talk to us Ruby Booby!?"

"Yang!"

"Oh, come on, it's funny."

"But this is serious!"

"Sorry, sorry," Yang apologized.

"So, what did you want to talk to us about Rubes?" prompted Tai.

With a lot of stuttering and stammering, Ruby conveyed what she needed too.

Tai was at a loss.

Yang responded first, laughing maniacally. "I guess you really are Ruby Booby after all huh?"

"Yang!"

Tai watched his baby girl whale on his eldest ineffectively. He smiled.

I*I*I

Or perhaps something more casual?

What screamed: _business_?

Perhaps he should ask Blake? She was a bit of a pervert—but she knew her stuff.

I*I*I

 _In the Near Future_

"How does it look?"

Blake grinned. "I bet he can't wait to get you out of it."

Pip flushed. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Could have fooled me," muttered Pip.

"Remember, this isn't a date. He just wants to ask you to be his assistant."

"Right."

"But he doesn't know I told you that," continued Blake. "So, you can totally make him think he's being an asshole who mislead you—then turn it into a date—then make him yours."

Blake pictured that. It was…quite the plot. Yes, she needed to start writing this stuff down. Her readers—her future readers that is—would eat this up.

"That seems kind of deceptive…?" said Pip, uncertain.

"Oh, it is, but consider it this way. If some lying slut tricked him into getting together with her would you be any less out a man?"

"Um…"

Blake continued before Pip could answer.

"You can apologize after you have him wrapped around your finger. Or better yet, never. John's a fighter. He knows all is fair in love and war."

"Okay, but—"

"I'm telling you Pip; you weren't there. When he was talking about finding the things you can't sacrifice and doing anything for them…" Blake could still see it playing out in her mind's eye. His hands-on Adam's jacket, hosting him high, as he shouted all kinds of heroism.

What a perfect protagonist.

Where could she find a notebook?

"You want to be one of those things he can't sacrifice, okay Pip? Trust me on this. You. Want. Him."

"Do, I? I'm still no—"

"Yes. You do. And I want him for you."

"Seems like that's the more important thing," muttered Pip in a low voice that she _knew_ Blake's keen ears would easily pick up.

" _Trust_ me Pip." Blake smiled like the devil. "You'll thank me in the end."

I*I*I

Honestly, since being stuck in this strange old world by himself, Jaune had been worried.

Worried about screwing everything up.

Worried about losing track of important details.

Just…worried.

But things were looking up.

He was about to get an assistant.

He was in position to take out Cinder at any time.

And he was back at Beacon—a building which, in and of itself, was like an old friend.

Honestly, what could go wrong?

 **Anddddddddddddddd Scene.**

 **So…that's about a third a novel right there.**

 **AHAHAHA.**

 **So tired.**

 **If you all were hoping this is one of those time travel stories where the hero knows everything that's coming and can respond and react perfectly…well…it's not quite that.**

 **Still this ends the third Arc: Welcome to Vale.**

 **Intro Arc**

 **Imprisonment Arc**

 **Welcome to Vale Arc**

 **Beta'd by MysteryBeta**

 **My beloved beta also told me to tell you. The existence of this chapter before I had kids made him cry tears of joy.**

 **Such a drama queen.**

 **Don't stoppppp Believin'**

 **Pa tr e on . com (forward slash) vronsurd**

 **-Vronsurd**


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